


Sound Tracking

by turps



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Space AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:19:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The beat is muted, almost non-existent, and the loss hits Bob hard. He's used to living his life in a constant thrum of sound, sensing those around him, the rhythm of the universe a constant companion, but here there's almost nothing. He can feel the sound that's been pulling him for weeks now, but little else. This place is dead, almost silent, and Bob aches with the feeling of being cast into nothingness.</i></p><p>A MCR - Bob and Gerard centric space AU where Gerard's band has been taken from him and Bob helps find them. Also features FOB, especially Pete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound Tracking

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Implied n/c, implied torture, death of supporting characters in the past and also during the story.
> 
> Notes: I want to thank everyone who listened, encouraged and read snippets of this story when I pushed them their way. Special thanks go to ephemera and especially nopseud and arsenicjade. They listened, read, fixed my mistakes, read again and willingly gave me their time. I can never thank them enough for that.

It takes two hours in a holding pattern before Bob is allowed to land.

In that time he fills in a lengthy data request and endures two conversations where he's interrogated about his reasons for a visit. If it wasn't so important, Bob would have flown away after the first half hour. He suspects that's the whole point. Steriska doesn't want people to visit, and it shows.

But, the thing is, Bob _has_ to land.

Eventually he's given exact grid positions, and when he lands, an official of the port is waiting. He's dressed in a precise uniform of black pants and a buttoned coat, his stunner prominently displayed on his hip and his expression closed. He waits, motionless as Bob powers down his craft, and then steps outside, sealing the door.

"If you'd follow me."

Gaze directed forward, the man starts to walk toward the processing area, his boots clicking against the solid ground. When they're close he waves his hand and a door slides open, exposing a featureless room, a long counter along the side wall. There are multiple terminals set on the counter, but they're all unused, their screens blank.

The official walks to one of the terminals and presses a button, making the screen flicker to life. "Read this and fill in all required information."

Bob walks to that terminal and waits to one side until the man goes to stand close to the exit, his posture rigid and pointedly looking straight ahead. Bob suppresses a sigh, it's been years since he’s used a terminal with an actual physical keyboard and the keys feel strange under his fingers as he fills in the same information he was asked about not an hour before. He pushes back irritation as he hunches over and starts to type.

It takes almost thirty minutes to finish, and when Bob's done he looks up and the man walks close and slowly reads all the inputted information. When he's satisfied he nods once and types with a clatter of keystrokes and then turns to Bob.

"Your stay on a visiting basis has been accepted for a period of one day. If, after that period of time you haven't returned, you will be found and deported. It is accepted you have read and understood the rules of our world, the most important of which is no music of any kind. If you sing, whistle or hum a tune you will be found and the punishment will be swift. If you play music, you will be jailed. If you persist the penalty will be severe. Follow the lights out of this area and do not deviate from the marked path."

He indicates a strip of dim lights set in the floor and Bob nods once before following the trail. It leads him through a series of corridors, the walls dingy white with pockets of shadows where the lights in the floor have burned out without being replaced. Eventually the trail ends at an over-sized door that slides slowly open.

Outside, the air tastes artificial. Bob can feel it at the back of his throat, the slight dryness and chemical residue that he associates with space ports everywhere. Except this port is different in its blandness. No merchants selling food or bars set up to entice travelers. There's nothing but a long path that leads out of the facility--a ribbon of grey cutting through dark earth. Sporadically, flowers have been planted but they're wilted, stalks bowed and petals dried. It's one of the dreariest places Bob has ever seen, and he's seen many.

Loosening the top buttons of his coat, he sets off along the path. Immediately he starts to sweat under the bright light of the twin suns and he wishes he'd left his heavy coat back at his craft, but the thing is he needs the items he's got pushed into his deep pockets. The water and food bars, and especially the miniature stunner stowed close to his hip. It bumps reassuringly as he walks, comforting in this place that feels so off.

Because this place is wrong. The beat is muted, almost non-existent, and the loss hits Bob hard. He's used to living his life in a constant thrum of sound, sensing those around him, the rhythm of the universe a constant companion, but here there's almost nothing. He can feel the sound that's been pulling him for weeks now, but little else. This place is dead, almost silent, and Bob aches with the feeling of being cast into nothingness.

Walking faster, he looks at the buildings in the distance. White towers glint in the sun, surrounded by curving sky tubes that rise in graceful arcs. It's a city of simplistic beauty, but the closer he gets, the more he wants to turn back and fly away. It's no surprise that so few outsiders visit, and Bob can't help feeling like some kind of freak as the people covertly watch him, looking away when he gets close.

Unused to the attention, Bob scowls as he enters a Skywalk that climbs steeply upwards. It's almost empty, the other walkers pressing against the side of the tube as he approaches. Which suits Bob fine. The breath-catching dry heat is enough to contend with, the suns bleaching out colours and washing everything in a blinding headache-inducing light.

Bob runs his fingers around his collar and wipes at his forehead. This is his idea of hell, trapped in these endless rat-runs with strangers, each one an empty space of nothingness, their natural rhythm stifled, or in some cases completely gone. All he wants to do is get back to _The Love and Death_ and take off, back to the solitude of space.

He keeps walking forward, urged on by the _something_ that had compelled him to land--an itch in his fingers, an awareness that something is wrong. It's been intensifying by the day and is driving him quietly insane.

“Watch it,” Bob snarls, glaring at the bot that barges past, its face set in the familiar non-expression. He bunches up his hands and shoves them deep in his pockets, concentrating on walking and not the lack of sound. Because if he does that he’ll end up throwing punches and he's already got a reputation; being banned from another planet won’t help that at all.

This Skywalk tube is heading toward the outskirts of the city. Bob looks down at the roofs of buildings and watches the hovercrafts that skim the ground.

“Five minutes and I turn back,” Bob mutters to himself, and his skin itches in response.

He doesn’t stop at five, or ten, or an hour. He keeps going, pulled forward by some instinct that intensifies with each step. Finally though, when his clothes are drenched through with sweat and he's walking the Skytube alone, Bob knows he’s close.

It feels like his blood is bubbling underneath his skin, and Bob digs his fingernails into his palms, focusing on the sting as he branches away from the main tube, entering one that's smaller, rougher, the sides coated with grime. He walks down, knees buckling with the increasing gravity, and when he finally steps outside, he staggers, hissing at the heat when he instinctively reaches toward the outer tube wall.

Breathing hard, he narrows his eyes and shades his face as he looks around. He's standing next to an abandoned building, its walls demolished to piles of twisted metal. At first he thinks this is where he's meant to be, but a moment forcing himself to sense the emptiness around him, and he hones in on the beat once more. The faint trail that he's been following for weeks. He sets off, past the building and onwards, to a place with no sidewalks or signs of previous life at all, just endless bare landscape and piles of jagged rocks.

His feet are throbbing from the long walk, and the suns are low in the sky when Bob finally reaches his destination. It's another abandoned building, small and tucked close to a towering cliff of purple glinting rock. While the walls are standing, they're scored with laser marks and the door hangs at an angle, shards of metal pushed deep into the ground. Bob listens and feels the beat. It travels through his feet, his legs, circling his belly and seeps into his bones. It angers him, because as much as he wants to retreat, he knows he won’t.

He can’t.

Taking a deep breath, Bob walks forward, ducking so he can enter a long hall. Plasma screens line the walls, each one smashed completely, except for one at the very end. It's stuck on an endless loop, advertising a band that Bob's never heard of. A captured image of a group of people in outdated clothes, advertising their songs to an audience of none.

Bob runs his finger over a burn mark on the wall. He feels dizzy after chasing this for so long, and being in this place doesn't help. He can feel the echoes of hundreds of past songs, their melodies abruptly cut off, leaving impressions of terror in their place. A background to the one beat that remains. It's louder now. Slower. _More_. It washes over Bob, making him grit his teeth against the vibrations that shudder through his body.

Hand resting on the stunner tucked against his hip, Bob forces himself to move, pushing through the throbbing sound, past the broken terminals and dusty couches that line the walls. He steps over an abandoned shoe to push open another door – nails dragging along a rusty floor – and finally, he knows he’s arrived.

The room is cavernous, empty space with two bars at either side, a stage at the far end. Bottles lie on their sides, liquid spilled in dried pools and the air holds the faint scent of alcohol, sickly sweetness mixed with underlying decay.

Feet sticking to the floor, Bob slowly walks forward, cringing against the sound that fills the room, feeling and hearing it at the same time. Bob freezes in place when he sees something move -- a shift in the shadows on the stage.

Immediately Bob draws his stunner, holding it easily as he inches forward, never looking away from those moving shadows. He's half way across the room when he realises it's a humanoid. One curled forward on its knees, back bowed and hair falling to the floor.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bob says, projecting calm, even as his own heart is racing.

The humanoid – the man – looks up then, and for an instant hope is apparent in the curve of his smile, the way he straightens. Then his shoulders slump, misery apparent as he looks at Bob and says, slowly, “shoot me, I don’t care.”

His voice is little more than a rasp, blood flecking his lips with each word. Bob drops his hand.

“I don’t think so.” He stops at the front of the stage and watches as the man moves back to his previous position, looking toward the ground as if Bob isn't here at all. “Can’t you stop that sound?”

“No.” The man looks up through his hair, his eyes gleaming and ringed with red. “It’s guiding them back.”

Which makes sense, because _something_ has pulled Bob here, to this place, this man. Despite his instincts screaming _flee_ , he places his stunner back in its holster and says, “Who?”

The man pushes back his hair, and his lips are nothing but a thin line speckled with blood. It's obvious each word hurts, but he stares at Bob, reaches out before dropping his hand. “They took them. The police. We used to sing and they came and took them away. My brother. My band.”

Remember the strict laws of this planet, Bob has to wonder how this one escaped.

“I was pulled into the crowd, they saved me.” The man coughs and blood drips between his crooked fingers as he says, savagely. “I hate them for that.”

Bob can understand.

“So you stayed here and sent out a signal?” Bob rubs under his eyes. His head is aching and that's after mere minutes. “How long?”

At first Bob thinks the question hadn’t been understood, then the man pushes himself up and crawls toward a portable terminal. He presses a button, and in a whine of noise, a curtain of light shimmers across the back of the stage, scored over and over with black lines.

“Each one is a day.” The man drops the terminal and looks back at Bob. “The sound, it’s theirs. Mikey’s bass, Matt’s drums, Frank and Ray’s guitars. I fixed it all, mixed it together, they’ll know, they’ll follow it home.”

Bob looks at the light, made horrific with countless dark lines, and hates himself before he even says the words. “Do you really think they’ll come back? It’s been almost a year.”

“They’re my band.” The man glares and pulls himself to his feet. He looks proud, sure. “When my voice comes back I’ll sing. They’ll hear.”

In that moment Bob can almost believe. Except he’s seen too much, survived too often, and knows the only miracles are the ones you engineer for yourself. Which is why he takes that final step forward, knowing why he's here.

“I think you need to come with me. The police could come back any time. I'm surprised they've left you alone so long.”

“They think they killed everyone that tried to escape.” Voice faltering, the man looks at Bob. “I have to stay, because my band's coming back, I know they are.”

"You've been lucky so far, why push that?" Bob holds out his hand, making the decision that was inevitable from the moment he first felt the beat emanating from this long-dead planet. “I’m Bob. I’ve a small craft and a lot of free time. I think we need to go find your band."

The man hesitates. Then, suspicious, says, “Gerard, and why should I trust you? You could chop off my hand as soon as I turn my back.”

It's a valid point, and Bob can't help feeling relieved that Gerard's not so far gone that he'll trust anyone. Still, he needs to convince him, and fast. "If I was going to chop off your hand why would I wait until you turned away? I'd do it face to face. Anyway, you only lose a hand for playing an instrument, I'd vaporise your vocal chords for singing."

"And that's supposed to be reassuring?"

"No, that's me being truthful. I could have killed you multiple times by now. I still might if you don't come with." Immediately, Gerard takes a step back, and Bob wants to kick himself for being so impatient. He sighs, taking a moment to center himself. It's not Gerard's fault that Bob hates this place, but the longer Bob remains, the more he's reminded that a vital part of his existence is missing. And that's without the very real fear of being discovered here. The last thing he needs is to be thrown in jail or terminated for being found in an illegal club. "Sorry. It's just, if I don't leave on time I'm in trouble."

"This is my home," Gerard says, and Bob knows he's talking about something bigger than this immediate area. "At least it used to be. It stopped being that a long time ago."

"So why stay?" Bob says. "If you do you'll die."

"And what if that's what I want?"

"It's not," Bob says, sure. "If it was you'd have given in long ago. Now, are you coming or not?"

Gerard looks around. At the smashed equipment and stained stage, the bars with their empty shelves and cracked mirrors. "I can't pay."

Bob sighs, already suspecting as much. The loner Bob Bryar, picking up strays and going off to find more, sometimes he can’t believe that this is his life. He touches Gerard's arm and inclines his head toward the exit.

They walk out into the darkness, and Bob says nothing, following when Gerard heads to the back of the club. There's the wreckage of a hover cart and a line of crude wooden crosses pushed into the dirt back there. Bob can guess why they’re there; he’s seen too many make-shift graves on too many planets and his hands itch in remembrance of digging into alien soil.

“I had to. Some of the audience and they started to rot.” Gerard is biting at his lip; fingers blanched white against his thighs. “It was the least I could do, and I had time.” He looks at Bob, as if expecting condemnation, but Bob just looks back levelly until Gerard nods slightly and bows his head, whispers something Bob can't hear, but he doesn't need to. The beat that surrounds Gerard says it all, a mournful sound that hangs heavy in the air, and while Bob doesn't knows these people, he mourns too.

~~~~

There’s space between Bob and Gerard, enough that Bob feels comfortable as they slowly walk into the tube. It's taken a long time to get back and Bob's all too aware of the passing time, but he knows Gerard can't walk faster, already he's pushing himself as fast as he can go. They’re silent, just the sound of Gerard’s harsh breathing and their footsteps, and while Bob doesn’t need to talk, he can sense the words that Gerard needs to say, the way his hands twitch as he looks around. Bob says, “Tell me about them.”

Gerard bites at his bottom lip and it splits in yet another place, a small dribble of blood oozing down his chin. Using the back of his hand, Gerard swipes it away with hands that have ragged black-painted nails and are coated with dirt and dried blood.

“They’re _fantastic_.” Gerard lights up when he talks, despite the obvious effort it takes to force out each word. “Ray’s been my friend for years. We met at one of the education centres, before they decided they were too risky.” Gerard coughs and wipes more specks of blood from his chin with his hand. “He fucking shreds like a crazy person.” Gerard smiles, obviously lost in some memory and Bob is content to wait, shortening his strides as they reach the join to the main tube.

“He’s a good guy.” Gerard moves toward the side of the tube. He presses his hands against the plastic, fingers splayed as he looks down at the ground. “Matt’s our drummer, he’s good, but I think he wanted to move on. He knew it was impossible, but he kept talking about going off-planet, like it was something he'd be allowed to do. Sometimes….sometimes I tell myself he’s off traveling somewhere. They all are.”

Bob takes a bag of water from one of his pockets. He hands it to Gerard who unscrews the spout and takes a shallow drink, hardly enough to wet his mouth.

“Drink some more, I’ve enough,” Bob says, and leans back against the wall, arms crossed as Gerard takes another small drink.

“I drank through all the bottles first.” Gerard licks his lips and looks back in the direction of the club. “Just me, a pile of rotting bodies and an endless supply of alcohol. I did it to forget.”

“Did it work?”

“At first.” Gerard takes another drink, then carefully seals the bag. “I kept waking up.”

“That happens,” Bob says, and takes the bag. Stowing it back in his pocket he briefly rests his hand on Gerard’s arm. “You were telling me about Matt.”

“Oh, yeah.” Gerard starts to walk again, and his voice is worsening, rough and destroyed, but still he talks. “He lived in level four, away from the main city, we all did. Frank too, but he didn’t go to the same education centre. His parents wanted to be city dwellers one day so they paid extra for a better center.”

Bob nods, hearing the smile in Gerard’s voice.

“He plays the guitar, him and Ray together are phenomenal but he’s a crazy bastard, he brought an anti-grav unit once. We all ended up playing on the ceiling, well, except for Matt. His drums wouldn’t stay together. He was a little pissed off. His kit cost almost a year’s wages and he had to buy it bit by bit through the tradeline.”

Bob sucks in a breath, picturing his old drums floating through space. “I can imagine.”

“Yeah, right? But the show fucking rocked that night.” Hands waving in the air, Gerard turns so he’s walking backwards, more easily able to see Bob. “The kids loved it; we were on fire, even Mikey spoke.”

“Mikey?” Bob asks, and wishes he hadn’t when Gerard’s smile fades. He turns back around, looking anywhere but at Bob.

“Mikey’s my baby brother.”

It’s all he says, and Bob bites back an apology, because there’s nothing to apologise for. He looks away from the slump of Gerard’s shoulders, the way his footsteps have slowed even further.

“He plays bass and is so damn talented.” Gerard runs his hand through his hair, presses his fingers against his thigh. “That night, when the police came, I… I tried to get to him, but people were running and they were firing at the kids and then the crowd grabbed me and I couldn’t… I should have tried harder. We should have had a plan. We played and thought we'd never be found out." There's a long moment when Bob thinks Gerard is done talking. Gerard shakes his head, though, rasping, "We were stupid.”

“Maybe you didn't think it through, but what could you have done in the raid? Let yourself be captured too? Fought them all off yourself?” Bob ignores the startled look of hurt he gets in return, because he’s been there, survived that, has the survivor's guilt space-suit and the fact is it sucks. But nothing can be gained by _if only_ and _I wish_.

~~~~

The suns are starting to rise by the time they approach the port. Bob’s tired and he’s almost carrying Gerard, dragging him relentlessly forward. Knowing there's no way he'll get Gerard through security; Bob lowers him on the edge of a clearing in a park near the port. He's hidden by a spiked bush but as a hiding place it sucks. Still, Bob's desperate, and once it's fully light his chances of getting Gerard off world will be non-existent.

"Stay here, I'll be back for you," Bob says.

“Wait,” Gerard says, and he grabs hold of Bob’s ankle. “They could still be here.”

“They could be,” Bob says. “But we can’t stay right now. I’ll find out where they were taken, and if they’re here, we’ll come back. Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Gerard says, more unconscious than awake now, and he slumps to the ground, curling up small. Leaving him is one of the hardest things Bob has ever done. It feels wrong, and the low thrum of Gerard's beat is a constant reminder of what he could lose as Bob runs out of the park and steps onto the path that leads to the port. A quick walk and the door slides open at his approach. The same dim strip of lights leading Bob back to the same room with the same official standing close to the door, as if he’s awaiting Bob’s return.

Bob hates him. For the way he says nothing as he documents Bob's return, but mostly how he feels so empty, a living breathing person with no connection to the beat at all; an all too physical reminder of this place where the rules are unjust and the punishment harsh.

The official escorts Bob to the _Love and Death_. She's docked near the end of the row, small and battered, one craft in an area built to house many. Tension bleeds from Bob’s shoulders as he trails his fingers along her hull and opens the door without saying a word.

Inside he strides to the conn. He sinks down into his seat, fitting perfectly into the dips and creases made from years of use. A touch of a button and the visor slips down over his eyes. Bob blinks as the world shimmers and readjusts, numbers appearing in his vision, slides and dials that are invisible to the naked eye. Reaching out a hand he moves a switch to the right, uses his other hand to manipulate beams. Bob excels at finding the rhythm of these crafts. He’s at one with the _Love and Death_ , and he trusts her implicitly.

Concentration thrown outwards, he feels the throb of the engines, the counter-whine of moving parts and gathering power. He controls it easily, teases a line, manipulates numbers until the engines are primed and ready, because while Bob doesn’t expect to be stopped, there's always that chance.

“Let’s do this,” Bob says, quietly. He takes a deep breath and opens a comm channel. “This is the _Love and Death_ requesting permission to take-off.”

Static fills the cabin, and Bob can feel sweat prickle against his hairline as he waits. He flexes his fingers and runs his tongue against the ring in his lip, forcing himself to remain still.

“ _Love and Death_ , ready yourself.”

Take off is second nature to Bob, he moves his hand and he feels the tingle against his skin, energy building as the thrusters flare into life. The _Love and Death_ is poised and ready to spring.

“Permission to depart in three…two…one…go.”

The initial blast is always painful, bones compressed and skin stretched and Bob feels burning heat and sound in an exhilarating burst. He loves this part, the adrenalin rush of being at one with his craft, speed and distance and he feels like he’s a jumbled mess of atoms, dispersed and formless until they break atmosphere and he can finally breathe.

“ _Love and Death_ has achieved orbit.” Bob shuts off the comm and after a moment reverses his direction and speeds back toward the port. He ignores the protests in his ear, the order to depart, concentrating only on a quick landing in the small space, something that's possible, but also something he tries not to do. It takes all of Bob's skill to keep the _Love and Death_ on the correct path. She swoops down, landing with a thump. Sirens are blaring as Bob scrambles out of his seat, pulls off his visor, blinking away the disorientation that always occurs with this transition as he runs to unseal the door. Bob breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Gerard, wobbly but upright.

"Gerard, come on!"

Bob jumps outside and grabs Gerard. All too aware of the approaching security, he pulls him inside. Gerard's skin is over-heated, dry like fragile tissue paper and Bob can’t help wonder if he’s bought himself more time with an inevitable corpse.

“I need to take off, stay here.” Gerard’s not listening, is nothing but a dead weight as Bob pulls him along and drops him onto Bob's own bunk. Gerard sprawls out, eye-lashes a dark line against the bruised sockets of his eyes. He looks more dead than alive but Bob can only spare a moment to haul Gerard’s legs onto the bunk and tug out the restraints hidden between the mattress and wall. Swearing when one sticks after years of un-use, Bob tugs hard until the strap pulls free and he can click it into place. Assured that Gerard’s as safe as he’s going to get, Bob runs back to the conn, where he thumps down into his seat and pulls on his visor, feeling sick at the abrupt change.

Throwing his attention outwards he takes off once again and engages the phavol drive as soon as they break orbit. The rush of escape adds to Bob’s elation as he becomes one with the universe once more, the _Love and Death_ one note in an ever evolving complex melody as she skims waves and plunges through space, nothing more than a vibration of sound. Finally, when he's calmed by the familiar sense of belonging, and the threats of Steriska have been left behind, he stops accelerating and inputs directions to the Axis Cluster. It’s a place he visits often, hiding a tiny planet under banks of dark cloud and thundering storms. It’s also a place where many travelers gather, and someplace he suspects he can find the answers he needs.

First though, he needs to deal with Gerard, because there’s no point finding answers when there’s no one to ask the questions.

Bob slips off his visor and rides out the dizzying seconds as controls disappear and the reality of vision clicks into place. He rubs his hands against his eyes. It’s been a long day and he’s hungry and tired. Normally he’d snack on dried rations and tumble into his bunk to sleep. Today he pushes himself to his feet and stumbles toward the alcove where he keeps the medical supplies.

There's a varied selection, because Bob has an unfortunate habit of getting into situations that go against him, and he’s used to tending his own wounds. Of course, it was worse before, when he seemed to spend hours splinting broken bones and stitching cuts as Bert lay on the floor, grinning through his tangle of hair.

Indulging himself, Bob allows himself to remember nights when they’d set the _Love and Death_ on auto and sprawl in the bunk room, holo cards in hand and dusty bottles of Jervakian ale at their feet. Or hanging out in the hold, listening to his crew play. Too many people crowded into too small a space, and always feeling right.

Except, as always, those memories inevitably bleed into broken bodies and blood-stained hands and the aching reminder that the rhythm of the craft is gone, each vibrant unique line replaced with one lonely beat.

“Gauze, water, scanner,” Bob recites firmly, focusing only on supplies. Gathering up the scanner and gauze, Bob kneels on the floor beside Gerard. He hasn’t moved, is lying spread out and unconscious, and Bob’s stomach twists as he’s reminded of what he’s taken on. Aware that his hands are trembling slightly, he presses them against his thighs and moves to fill a bowl. As the water trickles downwards, Bob taps the tank and frowns as he reads the dial. Half-full, which is fine for now, but he’ll have to refill soon, especially if… As it now needs to supply two.

Carefully, he takes the bowl and sets it on the floor before perching at the edge of the bunk. He’s sitting at an angle, his thigh against Gerard’s and Bob briefly rests his hand against Gerard’s chest.

“Hey, Gerard. I’m going to scan you.” Bob feels unsettled as he unfastens the restraints then bends forward and scoops up the scanner. Gerard is so still, defenseless, and Bob feels like he's taking liberties as he switches on the unit and slowly passes it over Gerard’s body. It’s no surprise when the reading shows that he’s dehydrated, his throat scarred and bleeding, and his fingers made crooked by multiple badly healed breaks.

Bob sighs, there’s nothing excessively major, but all the minor ailments add up. He sets the scanner down, swapping it for a handful of gauze. “I need to clean you up some, sorry if it’s cold.”

Soaking the gauze in the water, Bob squeezes it out and then gently starts to clean Gerard’s face. Methodically he passes over sharp cheekbones and Gerard’s cracked lips, wipes carefully under his eyes and over his brow and with each swipe he rinses the gauze, until the water is dark with dirt and blood.

Gerard never stirs and Bob slips into clinical detachment as he gently eases Gerard’s head to the side. Quickly he wipes under his ears and over his jaw-line, then down the line of his neck. Bob’s extra careful there, aware of hidden shallow cuts; he probes them carefully and the gauze is pink with fresh blood when he pulls it away, exposing a word-- _Failure_ \--cut into Gerard’s neck.

Stomach sour, Bob drops the gauze in the bowl and picks up the antiseptic. He sprays it in a steady burst, coating each letter before changing the water and picking up the gauze once more.

It takes almost an hour before Gerard’s clean. His clothes are in a pile on the floor and Bob pushes them to one side to jettison later. For now he’s left Gerard naked, a blanket spread up to his chest. He looks deathly pale, patches of skin glistening with antiseptic or dark with bruises. There’s nothing Bob can do for the finger bones that have healed wrong and Gerard’s throat which is a raw mess. That level of healing is beyond anything that’s on board.

Worried about the dry heat of Gerard’s skin, Bob takes a bottle from the refridge unit and kneels at the side of the bunk. Slipping an arm under Gerard’s lax shoulders he lifts him up and carefully pours a small amount of water.

“Drink this,” Bob says, and waits patiently as the liquid slips through Gerard’s lips. He grimaces when the water hits his throat and Bob sympathizes, but he still pours out more, repeating the action until he's happy that Gerard's taken in some fluid at least, even if it's nowhere near enough.

After taking a long drink himself, Bob eases his arm from under Gerard's body and stands. He sways and reaches out, pressing his palm flat against the wall. For a long moment he feels the rhythm of the craft, letting it wash over him in calming waves. Then he startles and pulls his hand back when he encounters something new: a faint thrum, so soft it's barely there. It's something that's needed, because Bob was never meant to go solo, but he can't help feeling resentful, regretting that he ever gave into the feeling that pulled him toward Gerard. Because Bob's not ready to let go of his friends, not when the echo of their song remains behind, a ghost of former melody.

Bob needs food, sleep, jugs of ale. He needs his fucking friends. Instead he pulls down one of the other bunks. It creaks as he does so, the blanket unrolls to expose a battered holo card unit and a faded grey t-shirt screwed up into a ball. With one quick movement Bob pulls the blanket off the bed and throws it on the pile of Gerard's clothes. When nothing is left but the thin mattress he lies down, curling up as he tries to sleep.

~~~

When he wakes, Bob's eyes feel gummy and his mouth is dry. Groaning, he starts to uncurl, then notices that Gerard is awake. He's got the blanket tugged up to his neck, the material scrunched up where he's got it fisted in both hands.

"Hey," Bob says.

Gerard's eyes widen in response. "You're alive." Gerard's voice is little more than a raspy whisper and Bob swallows, trying to get moisture back in his own mouth. "At first, when I woke up, I expected them to do the same."

It's not a conversation Bob wants right now. It's not one he wants ever. It's all too easy to remember the stench of the club, the stains on the floor and imagine Gerard waking to an audience of corpses. Swallowing, Bob swings himself upright and sits on the edge of the bunk, feet against the floor and hands against the edge of the mattress. Feeling the rhythm of the _Love and Death_ and his own beat so distinct, and again, the sense of something new. It makes Bob feel disoriented and he stands, pushing himself up. "You shouldn't talk."

Gerard shrugs, exposing a bony shoulder. "Talking's what I do." He coughs then, a harsh grating sound and when he moves his hand his palm is smeared with flecks of blood.

Bob frowns. "Well you need to stop. It has to hurt."

"Like a fucking bitch," Gerard says, and he gently rests his fingers against his own throat. He looks at Bob, his expression dark. "You talk back."

"Sometimes." Bob steps over the pile of clothes and blanket, and the holo card unit skitters across the floor, propelled by the toe of his boot. It clatters against the hull, a dull thumping sound and everything feels wrong. Bob's used to silence and his own company and he's all too aware of the sound of Gerard breathing, the careful way he's looking away as Bob gathers his thoughts.

"You need to drink more, eat, too, if I can find something that won't hurt your throat." Bob takes a bottle out of the refridge unit and his back prickles with awareness of Gerard watching him as he moves around the small galley, pulling out two cans of self-heating soup. Popping the tabs, he leaves them to heat while he takes the water to Gerard. He's pushing himself up now, arms trembling as he inches up the bunk. Bob thinks about offering to help, but Gerard seems determined to do it himself, making small pained noises until he's finally propped against the wall, the blanket tucked under his arms so it covers his chest.

Bob holds out the water. "I've pain patches."

"And you didn't offer them before because?" Gerard reaches for the bottle, mouth twisted down.

"Because I like to see you suffer." Bob rolls his eyes and goes to rummage in the medical supplies until he finds a pain patch that's the right strength, because the last thing he needs is Gerard ODing on some black market medicine Quinn picked up years before. "Shoulder or hip?"

Gerard winces as he turns to the side. "As much as I'd love to show you my legs; shoulder."

"You kind of already have." Bob peels off the backing of the patch and carefully smoothes it over Gerard's upper arm.

Gerard glances at Bob and then drops his gaze. "Right, when you cleaned me up. You didn't have to."

"No, I really did. You were kinda rank."

As soon as the patch is in place, Gerard pulls the blanket up until it's nestled against his chin and Bob starts to kick the pile of clothes toward the galley. Each kick disturbs clouds of dust and stench and Bob tries not to breathe until he's pushed them into the ejection hatch.

"Are you washing my clothes?" Gerard asks. He's shifted to the very edge of the bunk and Bob's relieved to see the lines of pain have loosened slightly around his eyes and mouth.

"No," Bob says, and hits the button of the ejection hatch. "I'm jettisoning them."

"You can't waste resources like that," Gerard protests. "A good wash and they'd have been good as new."

"Those things were so ingrained with alcohol they'd have blown up my ship if they'd met a heat source," Bob says, and picks up the two cans of soup. "And didn't I tell you not to talk?"

"My throat's feeling better."

"Because of the drugs." Bob reminds him, and holds out one of the cans, waiting until Gerard uncovers one of his hands. "It's still fucked up."

"I'm used to it." Gerard shrugs and takes a hesitant sip. He winces immediately and Bob knows even with the cushion of drugs it must be agony to drink. Gerard takes another sip anyway.

Bob settles down on the bare bunk. Taking a drink he enjoys the taste of vegetable soup. Not that he knows what kind of vegetables it actually contains, and in fact he would be surprised if the little cubes were naturally grown at all. Still, they taste good and that's good enough for him. Biting through a spongy chunk, Bob watches as Gerard slowly drinks. He looks rapturous, nose close to the open area of the can and eyes closed, like it's the first real food he's had for a long time.

"This is good. I didn't think spaceships would have kitchens, I thought you'd all survive on vac packs."

"Vac packs taste rank," Bob says, and he can't helping thinking about the club, feeling nauseated as he remembers the lines of empty shelves. Because Gerard had to eat _something_. Despite being unsure he wants to know the answer, he asks. "Before, what did you eat?"

"The corpses. Human flesh tastes like chicken." Gerard stares at Bob for a long moment, then his mouth quirks into a smile. "You're so easy. There was a store room out back. I must have eaten fifty fucking crates of chips and protein spheres."

"Tasty," Bob says, and pushes aside the residual queasy mental image of Gerard tearing into an arm.

"Yeah." Gerard coughs, and curls around the can. His shoulders are tense and soon he's panting for breath between each cough. Bob reaches for some water, waits until Gerard leans back against the pillows, his face waxy white and blood staining his lips. "This fucking sucks."

"You need to shut the fuck up." Taking the can from Gerard, Bob holds the bottle against his lips. Patiently he waits until Gerard drinks, then takes the bottle away and grabs more gauze. Wetting it he blots at the streaks of blood, scowling each time it looks like Gerard is about to talk. When he's clean, Bob gathers up the cans and medical supplies, tidying up and always aware that Gerard's watching, his nervousness transmitting itself in a jarring sense of rhythm.

"We're going to find my band." Gerard's eyes are nothing but slits, sleep finally catching up, but he moves his head so he can look at Bob.

"We're going somewhere I can find answers. To talk to someone I think can help."

Gerard's eyes close fully. He says, quietly, "Good."

~~~~

"Are you sure we don't need disguises? I'd look bitching in a mask and robe."

Bob adds more dried flubel fish to his bag and resists the urge to stuff one down Gerard's throat, because, seriously. "I told you, we don't need them."

"But we're going to be infiltrating a den of iniquity, if we need to find this Pete we need to blend in."

"You look like the walking dead. You'll blend in," Bob says, and adds a selection of tradable medication to his supplies.

"I prefer the description zombie-chic myself."

The description fits. Gerard still looks like little more than a walking corpse, and listening to him talk remains painful. In an ideal world he'd stay in the _Love and Death_ while Bob searched for answers, but Bob knows how to pick his battles, and this is one he'd never win. Buckling the bag, he looks at Gerard. "I should put something on your neck."

Gerard reaches up, fingertips beneath the scabbed 'F'. "I thought that gunk you've been spraying on was antiseptic?"

"It is," Bob says. He stands, rubbing at his right knee when it cracks. "I thought maybe you'd want it covered."

Carefully, Gerard presses his fingers over the word, then drops his hand. When he does, his hair falls back into place, and while the letters are partially covered it's still easy to see what's been written. Not that anyone will care planet-side, but Bob can't imagine displaying your issues for all to see.

"If it doesn't need covering, leave it." Gerard eases himself up, hand braced against the wall.

"Fine." Bob drops the bag on his bunk. "You should lie down; I'm going to land soon."

"Can I sit up front?"

Gerard has spent the majority of the last two days either in his bunk, or thoroughly investigating every part of the living area of the _Love and Death_. He's also devoured Bob's supplies of info pads, transferring every topic from comic books to the politics of the Aquatian home world then reading while listening to music, each new song delighting him, even the ones he hates. But he's never mentioned going forward, even when Bob disappeared to check their course and status of the craft. Him asking now is unexpected, and Bob's immediate reaction is to say no. Only crew are allowed forward and Gerard isn't crew, he can't be, because if he is, it means Bob is replacing those that have gone before, and he's not ready to do that.

Except, it's been years and Bob's life can't stay in a holding pattern forever.

"Come on."

Gerard looks surprised and immediately moves forward, like he wants to get there before Bob realises what he's said.

The door to the bridge opens and Gerard steps inside, then freezes in place. It's darker here, the artificial lights dimmed to better display the curved lines of the conn and the fact that the very front of the _Love and Death_ is transparent. It's like standing on your own tiny part of reality, looking into deep space and Bob can feel the connection, the tendrils of melody that slide against his skin.

Enthralled, Gerard looks straight ahead, his eyes wide as he looks from the cloud-covered planet Vanatrous to the stars that shine in the distance. "It's beautiful."

It _is_ beautiful, Bob has thought so since he was a child and his instinctive connection to the beat was picked up. Even now he can remember his first day on a craft, the sense of belonging and the realization that his connection to the rhythms of the universe could be harnessed and used.

Bob points at the chair set behind the pilot's seat. "Sit there."

Gerard does, and looks away from the vast expanse of space. He reaches out and touches Bob's arm. "Thank you."

Bob's skin tingles at the touch and he frowns as he sits. Twisting his seat he looks at Gerard. "Have you ever traveled in one of these?"

"You saw my planet, what do you think?"

"I think you're going to have the ride of your life," Bob says. "Okay. Some things you need to know. Once I've put on the visor, don't touch me. You can talk, but no touching. Same with moving, if you have to, go backwards, never forwards. If you barf, you clean it up yourself."

"Got it," Gerard says, and he looks up at the visor that's held above Bob's chair. "You use that to drive?"

"Fly," Bob corrects. "But yeah." Cutting off more questions, he turns and settles back in his chair. "We're nearly there. Sit tight."

The visor slides down, and everything changes. Bob can see the familiar controls and feel the _Love and Death_ surrounding him, the faint background throb that's the touch of millions of lives and closer, an awareness that the melody of his own life has changed; something that was cruelly destroyed is rebuilding. He can feel Gerard, their sound twisting together, harmonizing. Bob resists, pushes against this new addition, hating the way it reminds him how to feel. He concentrates on flying instead, routine preferable to dealing with his own emotions. "Port Vanatrous, this is the _Love and Death_ , requesting permission to land."

"Welcome _Love and Death_ , proceed to grid eleven, port twelve A."

Bob reaches out his hands, caresses lighted lines and skims switches. He's breathing alongside his craft, following the ripples that pulse from the planet below. In these moments he feels alive. He engages thrusters and feels reality explode in a frantic painful burst as they hurtle forward in a blur of motion and speed. Exhilarated, Bob guides the _Love and Death_ , skimming the atmosphere of the planet and plunging through the black clouds until she's close to the port. He slows then, easing back on the speed, his heart thundering as he becomes himself once more. He always feels lost in these moments, small and insignificant against the space he'd occupied only seconds before, but this time he's aware of Gerard, the steady pulse of him so uncomfortably close. Distracted, Bob engages landing procedures, and the _Love and Death_ settles with a thump.

"Fuck."

Bob takes of the visor, blinking hard as he turns to look at Gerard, who's got his hands pressed against his stomach, and looks faintly green. "I mean it, you puke and you clean it."

Gerard breathes in deep then exhales. He swallows hard and looks at Bob. "That was fucking intense."

"It usually is," Bob says, grinning. Through an outside made hazy by the swirling dust, he can see the lines of other crafts. They're all shapes and sizes, conditions ranging from a shining top of the line Star Skimmer to an old Trantrum Five, which seems to be held together with rivets and a patchwork of body-parts. There are no bots to be seen, just shadows and dim lights that line the main walkway to the arrival gate. It's how things are on Vanatrous; dark corners and shadows and everything available -- for a price.

Gerard stands and moves so he can look outside. Quietly, he asks, "Do you think this Pete will know where they are?"

“If he doesn’t one of his contacts will.”

“And then we’ll go and rescue them,” Gerard says, sounding hopeful.

“If they’re still alive, yeah.”

Gerard looks directly at Bob and says, "They are, I know it."

Bob hopes that he’s right.

~~~~

It's been a while since Bob's been to Vanatrous, but nothing has changed. The travelators still jerk when you step onto them and the buildings are still crowded together, their walls dull and the windows protected by forcefields that flicker and hum. Head down, Bob looks through the strands of his hair and hunches inside his coat. It's a quick ride to the center of town, passing empty streets. The few people who do walk past look away. Bob's tired, itchy from the dust that thickens the air and from having someone so close. He's been on his own for so long now, to have Gerard in his space is distracting. Bob can feel him always, bone deep, and it _aches_.

Of course, Bob could easily tell Gerard to leave. Except he knows he won't, which is the problem, because as much as Bob wants Gerard to stay he doesn't want him here either. At least, that's what he tells himself, when he tries to remember his old crew, and feels treacherous at the fading memories; when he realises he can't remember the pitch of Bert's giggle, or the exact colour of Jepha's hair.

"Bob." Gerard looks back over his shoulder. He's standing in front of Bob, within easy reach in case of falls, and his hair is a tangled mess, already coated with red dust. "Thank you."

Bob pushes back his own hair and shrugs. "Not like I was doing anything else."

Gerard twists around completely, his expression earnest. "I know, but, you didn't have to."

"Turn the fuck around before you fall." Hand against Gerard's shoulder, Bob pushes and Gerard doesn't resist, his muscles tight under Bob's touch. Bob keeps his hand in place, his fingers against Gerard's neck.

They step off and Bob's knees twinge as he stumbles forward, still protesting the heavier gravity. It's something he's used to, but he can tell Gerard's suffering, wincing as he walks.

"It gets easier." Bob pulls up the collar of his coat, chin down and eyes half-closed. Gerard's doing the same, and he's a stark contrast of dusty black hair and clothes against the metal walls.

"Where first?" Hand shielding his eyes, Gerard looks at Bob, waiting, and Bob can't help the bite of anger. Because how's he supposed to know? Pete goes where he wants, when he wants. Except, when he allows himself to feel, to cast aside the physical and now, Bob knows Pete is here. He can sense him, someone that's not the usual, not crew or friend or foe, but two steps removed.

Bob tries to concentrate, to hone in on this new beat, but all he can feel is Gerard. He's too real, too alive, too _there_ , and the fusion is jarring, getting worse the harder Bob tries to keep Gerard away.

"Bob." Tentatively, Gerard moves close. Bob's head is aching as he reaches out, grabbing Gerard's hand, fully embracing his beat.

It's better then, easier when Bob gives in; he curls his fingers around Gerard's as he listens. "There."

Gerard holds on as they walk. His fingers are rough, his grip tight, and when he stumbles Bob steadies him, standing still until Gerard smiles a small thanks. They keep walking and finally stop next to one of the bars. The door is closed and the forcefield over the window flickers, sparks of light jumping from frame to frame. Knowing this is the place, Bob shoulders the door open, sneezing when the sonic cleaner pulls the dust from his body. Inside he’s faced by a Maltavanian hanging from the roof, its scales rippling with colour as it dips its tongue into a glass full of something green. In the corner a group play ariel flamjacks, the ball whipping around their heads as they stare upwards, their heads covered with dark hoods.

"They've got no legs, awesome." Gerard's staring, his eyes wide as he looks around at all the different groups. "Does that thing have _feathers?_?"

"Don't stare, it's rude," Bob says automatically, but his attention is pulled toward the back of the room, where an empty table is surrounded by pushed out chairs.

"This way." He's still holding onto Gerard's hand and they hurry through the room, the beat stronger now, and Bob's got his hand on the back door when someone moves to block his way.

"Sorry, man. Employees only."

Bob holds up his free hand and steps back. He'd try and push past, but the stunner in the guy's hand is a big deterrent, even if he's holding it pointed at the floor.

"I thought I saw someone I knew," Bob says, frustrated because he knows he's in the right place.

"You saw wrong." The guy slips the stunner into a holster and indicates a nearby table. There's a bowl set in the middle, steam wisping from the crystals in the centre. "Come and sit down, take in some vapour, maybe your friend will come along later."

"We should go." Gerard unlaces their fingers and steps away from Bob, in the direction of the main door. "Look somewhere else."

"We'll stay," Bob says simply, noticing how confused Gerard looks as he's ushered into a seat. He sits, but shakes his head when the bowl is pushed his way. "I don't. Not now."

An obvious story is behind the denial, but Bob's not asking, not yet. He settles in his own chair and takes off his coat, letting it fall back.

"Bob," Gerard hisses. "We should keep looking, he’s not here."

He's looking toward outside, and Bob wishes there was a way to let him know that they need to be here. But the guy with the stunner is sitting, and despite the way he cups his hands over the crystals, inhaling deeply, his gaze is still sharp as he settles back and looks from Bob to Gerard.

"Joe. I work here."

"So I see," Bob says. He glances at Gerard before leaning forward, inhaling deeply. The hit is immediate, a familiar warmth, and the edges of Bob's world blur, the shock of what's missing becoming less harsh. "It must be hard being a professional vapor taker."

"It's not my shift," Joe says, casually, and he waves a hand toward the bar keeper who flaps a ragged red cloth at him in return. "So, your friend. What's he called? I might know him."

Making a snap decision, Bob says, "He's not a friend as such." He sits forward and looks directly at Joe, who looks right back, showing no evidence of the hit at all. "I'm looking for Pete Wentz."

"Isn't everyone?" Joe laughs and reaches behind him, snagging a bottle from the bar. "He's not here."

"Maybe not now." Bob doesn't blink, trusting that it was Pete he was being pulled toward. He keeps looking as Joe takes a long drink. "He was, the same way he was last time I saw him. You all need to stop with the subterfuge shit already."

Wiping his hand across his mouth, Joe sets down the bottle and pushes it toward Bob. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," Bob says, "But it's Bob. Bob Bryar. This is Gerard Way."

The words seem to carry some significance, and Joe's looking directly at Gerard, his initial surprise quickly hidden. Abruptly Joe stands. "I need to get ready for my shift. Andy will look after you; he does a mean marliveian cocktail." Joe leaves then, glancing back before he pushes open the back door.

Gerard leans across the table, his head turned away from the bowl. "Bob, we need to _go_. He said this Pete guy's not here."

"No he's not," Bob admits. "But he's close." He moves chairs so he's sitting next to Gerard, turns so their knees are touching. "I can feel him."

"You can....what?"

"Feel him," Bob says. "Your band, you could feel them right? Not physically, but inside. Like a background melody that was always there."

"I could feel Mikey I guess." Gerard says. He's chewing on his lip and runs his hand through his hair. "The others.... Matt always knew where we were, Mikey too, but they never said anything about feeling. Well, Mikey got drunk one night and told me we were connected with some kind of shifting bridge. I thought he'd been hitting the space dust again."

The admission makes Bob feel sick. He can't imagine not being tapped into the currents that surround him, and Gerard _should_ be able to feel.

"He was telling the truth, everyone has their own beat, and the closer you are to someone, the easier it is to feel." It's basic stuff, facts that Bob learned when he was a child, the difference being he was expected to explore and be one with the universe, not isolated like Gerard on a small planet.

"I thought he was bullshitting," Gerard says again, faintly. He pushes the bowl of crystals to the side of the table and wipes his fingers against his sleeve. "So, you can hear Pete? Like some kind of … bat?"

Trying to condense years worth of teaching into one short conversation is impossible, but Bob tries. "I can sense him. At least I assume it's him. It feels the same as last time, anyway."

"And that's enough?"

"It led me to you, didn't it?" Bob says. Which admittedly, is a mixture of both negative and positive right now.

"If you found me, why can't you find the rest?"

"Because it's not that easy. I don't even know how I found you. It's only supposed to work if you know the other person." Bob holds onto his irritation, remembers back to the questions he asked when he was a young child sitting at his desk, wide-eyed and awed as his teacher shared the wonders of the universe. "I can't control it like that. I wish I could."

"So, it's like you've got mutant powers and they're amplifying. Cool." Gerard settles back in his chair, looking lost in thought. Then he looks up at Bob. "What do I sound like?"

"Fucking annoying."

Gerard shrugs off the reply. "No, seriously."

Seriously, Gerard's voice still hurts to hear, more rasp than actual smooth sounds, but Bob knows it isn't what he's asking. "You sound good, rich, but… ” Bob hesitates, then says, "You could be better. It's obvious something is missing." Bob doesn't mention that Gerard's sound is merging with Bob's own beat. It's too early for that, and just thinking of the joined sounds makes him feel uncomfortable, resentful.

Gerard nods and stares across the table. His forehead wrinkling and eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to sense you."

"Right." Bob suspects Gerard will end up with nothing but a headache and a slight feeling of _something_. Picking out individual rhythms from the currents that surround them takes practice, and it doesn't help that in terms of tone, Gerard and Bob are as far apart as it's possible to be. Still, it means Bob is left in silence to look around, casting his own senses outwards.

He does so, and presses his hand against the table top; an anchor in the swirling eddies of sound that exist just above normal hearing range. The jagged lines of the Maltavanian or the comfortable easily sensed beat of the bartender who's busy passing glasses through a particle cleaner, his long hair glinting with reflected light with each pass. Then, further out, quieter, the bass lines that Bob knows is Pete.

It's a compelling combination of sound, but Bob stops listening when he realizes that Gerard is staring.

“What?”

“You said I could sound better, that something is missing. Are you missing something too?”

“It has to be an instinctive guess, that’s all, there’s no way that Gerard can know about Bob’s old crew. Still, it’s something Bob’s not prepared to discuss, even in the most generalized of ways.

"So, how did you end up playing at an illegal club anyway?"

"I guess it started with my grandma," Gerard says, accepting the distraction, and while he's looking in Bob's direction, it's obvious he's not seeing him at all. "She would have loved learning about the universe's beat; she lived with us and thought the laws about music were stupid. She used to wash the dishes and sing in defiance, songs her own mom sang to her. Only after checking for patrols though--she wasn't stupid."

"She sounds like a fantastic lady."

"She was," Gerard agrees. "She taught me and Mikey the songs and we used to sing them together, laughing when she pulled faces. She always told us to hush when we got too loud. One day... One day I didn't listen and was overheard. She told them it was her singing."

It's only been days since Bob was forced to read the rules of Steriska, and the punishments for being caught singing are all too vivid in his mind. Dreading the answer, he still has to ask. "Did they...."

"The police dragged her away. Mikey was crying but Helena just told him to be brave and for me to look after him. The last time I saw her she was being bundled into a hover-van." Gerard stops talking, wiping savagely at his eyes. "Mom tried to say she was in prison, but I knew what went on. Even then I'd seen the people who couldn't talk, or had lost a hand. And she wouldn't have gone quietly. Never stop fighting, Gerard, she'd say. And she wouldn't have, whatever the cost."

"I'm sorry," Bob says, regretting his question.

"I'm not." Gerard looks at Bob, his gaze direct. "She taught us not to blindly follow rules, and because of that we found others who thought like us. People who saw how stupid it was to ban music, and eventually we formed the band. We sucked at first, but we practiced in secret and eventually started to play at the Club."

"You don't regret it?"

"I regret how it ended. That I didn't fight harder. But the rest? No. Everything happens for a reason."

To Bob it's a simplistic way of thinking, but he can't help a pang of envy as his own memories crowd uncomfortably close.

"Bob." Gerard says suddenly, pointing across the room. "Look."

It's not exactly subtle; still, no one seems to be looking their way, even Joe, who's just reappeared from the back. He's gone to talk to Andy, their heads together as they look at an info pad. Bob tries to hear what they're saying, but it's too loud, and he contents himself with leaning back in his chair and kicking Gerard's ankle when it looks like he's going to talk.

Some last whispered words, and Joe is heading back to their table. Sitting, he places the info pad down, and Bob sees the entwined bodies of a Grifsplurk and a Humanoid, the logo of one of the entertainment sub space channels.

"I bumped into Pete."

"No shit," Bob says, because even if he's forced to play by their rules right now, there's no reason to hide the fact he's doing so.

"He's busy right now, but he can see you later. I suggest you get something to eat."

"Good," Gerard leans forward and clasps Joe's arm. "Because we think he can help us."

"Yeah," Joe says. He's looking at Gerard's hand, but doesn't shrug him off, just smiles briefly, momentarily by-passing the professional grin and jovial manner. "He'll try his best."

Joe stands then, heading for the table in the corner where he pushes himself into the crowd, joking and talking all the while.

"Wait, you've forgot..."

"Quiet," Bob says, taking the info pad from Gerard. "I doubt he left it by accident."

He runs his thumb over the screen, displaying one of Pete's many word-streams. Bob's read them before, it's impossible not to in this sector where Pete has close to celebrity status, and seems to think nothing of posting about his latest possession or his many friends over an insane amount of the sub space channels. But Gerard hadn't discovered gossip word-streams yet, so Bob scrolls down and tilts the pad toward Gerard. "Pete."

"Is he wearing a bovine hat?" Gerard says. He looks closer. "Sweet."

Personally Bob thinks that Pete looks a little insane with his perfect smile and hat pulled low. His words aren't much better, meaningless chatter about the price of his Super Skater Sneaks and the insane little mall in the Hawford area he bought them from.

Gerard, as he's reading, asks doubtfully. "Are you sure he can help? Because it's not like I've lost my shoe or something."

"He’s helped before." Bob pushes the info pad toward Gerard. "I'm going to get something to eat. What kind of soup do you want?"

"The kind that looks like a steak and fries."

Bob stands, says, "Carrobush root it is."

~~~

Bob takes another drink. It still tastes as bad as the first sip but the burn is welcome, slicing through the tedium of sitting, waiting for Pete to appear. It's been hours and even Gerard has stopped trying to talk, instead sitting slumped over the table, his cheek resting on his hand. The previous bartender had left some time before, and Joe is tending bar, standing propped in front of the snaking tubes of drinks and the ledge of glasses and tankards.

He seems to have an impressive memory for preferred drinks, easily flipping switches while sharing jokes and animated small talk. It's how Bob knows that Carla on the corner is having a bad day, Saul's craft had hit a meteor in the gamma sector, and the hosspig steak was tough today. Not that Bob needed to hear that to know that last one--his teeth are still aching after chewing his way through his own.

At least he has the info pad for entertainment, but even that gets old. There are only so many word-streams you can read before wanting to go insane, and Bob's never been one for the things. He's got no need to know what shops sell sweet space suits or fake cocoa bars; Bob's content with his old jump suit and replica wool socks.

Still, others are obviously interested, some of the comment threads running to the thousands, which really. Bob doesn't know how they have the time. Yawning, he covers his mouth and settles back in his chair. The bar is emptying now, people leaving for their crafts or one of the sleep spots and if he could, Bob would join them. He's tired, and the thought of his bunk is appealing. He takes another drink, knowing he has to wait.

He's on the last dregs of his drink when he hears a new voice. It's wrapped in a rhythmic beat and when he looks up he sees Joe, two other men behind him. One has his hat pulled low and glasses, and for some reason is frowning unhappily. The other is Pete. Like his beat, he seems to fill all the available space, greeting the patrons left with smiles and claps to the back. When he looks across at Bob, his smile falters briefly as Gerard rubs at his eyes and sits up straight. It's a momentary blip. His smile is soon back in full force, and he makes his way to their table.

"I remember you, Bob Bryar. Did you find the person you were hunting?"

"I did," Bob says, remembering the satisfying rush of vengeance. "I'm looking for someone else now, two people."

Pete's remained standing, and Bob feels at a disadvantage looking up at him, but he stays in place, willing to play at non-threatening.

"We thought...." Gerard stops speaking, cut off by a harsh cough. When he's finished he scrubs at his face with the back of his arm. "We thought you could help us. I'm looking for my band."

"And you thought I'd have seen them?" Pete asks. "I see a lot of people here. I couldn't possibly remember them all."

"You don't understand." Gerard's half out of his seat, and Pete's suddenly surrounded on all sides, Joe's hand brushing against his stunner.

Pete shrugs them away. "I don't understand what?"

"That you know people. Bob says you're the person to ask. I need to find them. I need to find Mikey."

Bob looks from Gerard to Pete. They're staring intently at one another and there's some connection between them that Bob can't begin to understand. It feels removed, but at the same time, part of the same melody and it's no surprise when Pete jerks his head toward the back of the room.

"Come with me."

They all follow. Pete then Gerard, Bob followed by Joe and the man with the hat.

The back room is small, more a corridor than an actual space. Boxes line the walls and Bob's thighs brush against them as he walks forward, waiting a moment while another door is opened. This one leads into a much bigger space, one complete with couches arranged in a corner and pull-down bunks on one wall. There's a coffee vendor on a bench, and Pete helps himself to a cup, taking a drink before he looks at Gerard and Bob.

"You want?"

Gerard nods eagerly, and Pete smiles as he pulls free another mug, passing it over. Bob shakes his head, wanting answers, not caffeine.

"I take it you can help us."

"I think I can fill in some blanks, I don't know how much help they'll be," Pete says. He sits on one of the couches, hunched over his coffee and keeps looking at Gerard as if he's something miraculous. "I had to check you out, especially Gerard, but once the prints matched I knew you were the real thing.”

“You lifted prints off our glasses?” Bob says. “That seems primitive.”

“Not your glasses, the data pad. As soon as you touched it your fingerprints were scanned and filed. It’s something Patrick thought up.” Pete turns to smile at the man in the glasses. “He’s a genius.”

Impatient, Bob steps forward. “Right, fine, you know who we are. That doesn’t explain you bringing us here.”

Pete’s smile fades. “I brought you here because Gerard shouldn’t be here. He’s supposed to be dead."

The statement makes no sense, and Bob hates having to untangle meanings and missing truths. He sits close to Pete, ignoring the warning looks sent his way. "Just tell us what you know."

Pete looks at Bob, but when he talks he directs his attention solely on Gerard. "You're Gerard Way. Your brother is Michael Way, you have a band and were playing a gig when it was stormed by the police who raided the club for an illegal music performance. You died that day."

"I didn't die." Gerard sits heavily, his mug tilting dangerously to one side. Bob reaches across and takes it, setting it on the floor.

"Mikey thought you did."

Bob thought Gerard had been pale before, but it's nothing to how he looks now, his face leeched of colour. "Mikey's here? That makes no sense."

"He was. Frank too. They left."

"What do you mean, left?"

"I mean I woke up one morning and they'd gone," Pete says, his own careful reply in direct contrast to Gerard's anger. "They hadn't said they were going, if they had I would have stopped them."

"Did you try and catch them? What were they even here for anyway? Why are you so special? Why didn't they come home?"

"Gerard." Bob grabs Gerard's arm and tries to break through the barrage of questions Gerard throws Pete's way. "You have to let him answer."

"Of course we tried to catch them." Patrick sounds angry as he steps forward, taking a position close to Pete's side. "Pete wanted them there, we wouldn’t have just let them go. We sent our best pilot and tracker, he followed their beat, but he wasn't close enough, he lost them."

"Patrick," Pete says, briefly resting his head against Patrick’s shoulder. "It's okay, they don't know." He looks at Bob then, back to Gerard. "I would have gone but we were setting off for a big raid that day. Two hundred slaves from a pleasure barge. I couldn't go after them." He looks down, and his hands are clenched into tight fists. "I've regretted that every day."

"I don't understand." Gerard's still, none of his usual ticks visible as he stares at Pete. "You run bars and write word-streams and answer questions, why would you even be raiding anything? And slavery? That’s something from the past, it doesn’t happen anymore."

“It does if you know where to look,” Patrick says, stepping close to Pete.

Pete leans into the touch and says, "And I was there because that's what I do. What _we_ do. The bars, the clothes line, the word-streams, it's all a cover. We rescue slaves and set them up in new lives."

Bob looks directly at Pete. "So you’re telling us you’re some kind of freedom fighter? One that spends half his life hanging out in bars?

“It's a good way to get people to talk to me. We find out a lot of things that way. Like now, you two came to me."

 

Bob's attention is solely on Gerard, and he sense-sees the procession of emotions. Relief, happiness, then a sudden realisation that ends with trepidation and fear.

"And Mikey and Frank were here because?"

"Because they were slaves and we freed them," Pete says, simply, but his body language is tense.

Gerard takes a moment to calm himself, and the beat around him slows, steadies, twists into the slightest hint of melody with Pete's. Now that Bob's this close, has the beginnings of answers, he can see the similarities between them. The sound of Gerard that lingers in Pete's own, but at the same time, it's not Gerard at all. It's something deeper, more pronounced, despite its faintness, Bob knows it's an echo of Mikey, lingering on them both.

"Tell me everything," Gerard says, commanding, and Pete nods.

"I'll tell you, but not here." He stands, and while his loss is still apparent, his leadership skills are too, as he straightens his shoulders and steps away from Patrick. "Andy, stay and watch the bar. When Jadzen comes in tell him I'll contact him later. Joe, double check things are okay for tomorrow. Patrick, can you do the word-streams tonight? My notes are on the data pad."

"I guess I can try and decipher your notes," Patrick says, but he's already looking at a data pad, deftly scanning through pages.

Pete looks at him, expression stern. "No modifications this time. People thought I'd been hacked last time you did the word-streams."

"Well, if you'd use punctuation like a normal person, or stop being so cryptic that wouldn't be an issue, now, would it?"

"That's what I do," Pete says. "Just put in the coded co-ordinates and add in random facts about trees and the moon. I haven't done that for a while. Oh, or there's a sweet protein bar I tried last week. You could feature that."

"How about I not." Patrick shakes his head, still scanning pages as he looks over the top of his glasses. "I'll do them at the house."

"I don't need a babysitter," Pete says.

Patrick shrugs. "I know, but do you really think I’d let you do this alone?"

“I’m fine. I will be fine.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “That’s what you said last time, too.”

~~~~

Pete keeps his vehicle behind the bar. It's spotlighted under the lights attached to the wall, shining bright and painted a particularly lurid shade of yellow, and seems big enough to carry a large amount of people. It makes Bob's eyes hurt just looking at it.

"It's awesome, right?" Pete's grinning wide as he presses his palm against the vehicle. Immediately a side panel opens and he steps aside. "After you."

Hand against Gerard's back, Bob urges him to enter first. There's room to stand upright inside, scarlet plush seats arranged in a U shape with space at the back for a long counter and shallow cupboards. The ceiling is transparent and a drinks unit is attached to one wall.

"I had it custom made," Pete says. He steps inside and sprawls on a seat opposite Bob and Gerard, lifting his legs and resting them over Patrick's when he sits by his side. "With the modifications we could live in here for weeks."

"Technically, anyway." Patrick pokes Pete hard in the thigh. "We've managed three days so far."

"Because you threw me out and threatened to kill me if I came back inside." Pete looks at Gerard and Bob, his expression mournful. "It was cold. We were watching a trafficker group. I could have died.

"We were watching via long-range surveillance, and I gave you a blanket."

"After I stood shivering for an hour."

"You shouldn't be such an annoying fucker, then," Patrick says, obviously unrepentant.

"All I did was message you."

"And yet I was right here, in the same vehicle. Nowhere where you needed to send me a message a minute for nearly four hours."

"I missed you though." Pete's trying to maintain his mournful expression, but the twitch of his lips give him away as he appeals to Bob and Gerard. "I bet you wouldn't have thrown me into the cold."

"I wouldn't have lasted ten minutes before throwing you out," Bob says. It's true. Even now, in such close proximity Pete's hard to be near. He's too much in too concentrated a package and Bob has to remind himself that there's more to Pete than the easy grin and his exaggerated personality.

"I would have thrown myself out even sooner," Pete admits. He leans back in his seat, turns so he can rest his head against Patrick's shoulder. "We ended up freeing five slaves that time, they're relocated now."

"That must feel good," Gerard says, his voice a little wistful. "Saving people."

"There's always more we can't save." For a moment, Pete's beat is slow, deep, allowing Bob to hear the underlying tone. Then it changes, because lighter, more carefree as Pete reaches out for a small control box. He presses a series of buttons and they start to move as the sides of the vehicle become transparent, so it feels like they're in a ground-level version of the _Love and Death_.

Bob looks outside as they leave the areas that he knows and travel outwards, the cramped dingy buildings becoming larger and better maintained. The dusty sidewalks and stuttering travelators are replaced with climate-controlled neighbourhood bubbles and private vehicles parked outside each house. It's in sharp contrast to where the bar is situated, and the longer they travel the greater that contrast becomes. Eventually they come upon an area where the houses are isolated, each one surrounded by landscaped space.

"You live out here?" Gerard's turned in his seat so he can look behind him, taking in each distant brightly-lit house as they pass.

"I do, we all do," Pete says. He grins at Gerard. "Not like you're thinking though, Patrick keeps saying no."

"I told you, you're too much man for me," Patrick says automatically, like it's something he's said multiple times before. “And anyway, the pact, remember?”

"But I'd make an exception for you." Batting his eyelashes, Pete pushes himself up and away from Patrick who flips him off without even looking directly Pete's way.

"That's Pete's house."

Bob looks where Patrick's pointing. The house is one of the biggest they've seen, two floors of shining metal and glass, set under its own climate bubble and surrounded by what looks like actual grass. When they stop and exit the vehicle, Bob can't resist stretching out his foot, pressing his toe against the green springy surface.

"I grow it myself, from imported seed." Pete looks over his shoulder and indicates the expanse of grass with a sweep of his hand. "It's good to lie on and star watch."

"That's kind of a waste of money," Gerard says. He's trying for a blank expression but his disapproval is seeping through anyway. Something that Pete obviously feels too as he turns, and while he's not smiling, he's close.

"Mikey said that too, though he waited a while. In fact, I think it was after he'd helped cut it the first time. I think he managed all of five minutes."

"That sounds like him." Gerard is smiling as he looks at the grass. "He _hates_ chores; he tried to make a sonic scrub once. He'd seen one at a friend's house and always hated washing up, so he got this old unit and tried to hook it up. We were picking bits of plate out of the walls for weeks." Gerard's smile fades then, memories of then being replaced by the sorrow of now. "I miss him." Gerard squeezes his eyes shut. "I miss them all." Then, whipping his face up to look at Pete, he pleads, "Tell me about them; please."

The plea is harrowing in its intensity, but Bob isn't sure that Gerard's up to learning unpleasant truths right now.

"Why don't you sleep first? Pete can...."

"No," Gerard interrupts before Bob can even finish his words. "I've waited long enough."

"Fine, but I'm giving you a pain patch when we get in. You sound terrible."

"Whatever," Gerard says. He looks at Pete. "I want to know everything."

Pete looks torn, but he takes a breath, nodding. "And I'll tell you. Inside."

Stooping a little, Pete presses his face next to the scanner fixed on the wall. A flash of light and the front door slides open, the lights turning on in the hall. They step inside and immediately Bob is struck by the obvious wealth. He looks around, at the mixture of furniture, everything from an antique lazyboy recliner tucked against one wall to the latest in Harparian orb design. There's also a rack of stunners lined at the foot of the anti grav stair tube and a heavily armed bot standing sentinel in a corner.

"I have to protect the house," Pete says. He pulls off his coat, hangs it on a hook in the wall and looks at Patrick, who's busy arming the security system. "I'll be in the den."

Patrick nods, and there's some kind of communication going on between them that Bob can't understand. It's not on an aural level, he can sense that, this is more a language based on the tilt of eyebrows and unspoken words and Bob's not surprised when Patrick suddenly sighs and looks his way.

"Do you want to come with me? I can show you around. We've got a fantastic entertainment center. The 4D room is amazing."

It's not an unexpected offer. Bob's not Gerard and he doesn't even know Mikey or Frank. It's why he's about to go with Patrick when Gerard reaches out and grabs hold, his fingers tight around Bob's wrist.

"Stay with me."

Worrying at the hem of his shirt, Pete looks tired suddenly, unsure. "It's not a pretty story. I don't know if they'd want him to know."

Which is a statement that makes Bob feel better, because if Pete is willing to keep their secrets, it suggests his involvement is genuine, that Mikey and Frank are more than just names to him.

"They would," Gerard says. "They don't know Bob, but I do. And I know them. They won't mind him knowing."

He sounds convinced, and Bob can't help the flush of satisfaction at the fact that Gerard trusts him so totally. Not that he lets that show; he just waits patiently until Pete gives in with an uncertain, "Fine."

Patrick seems reluctant, but he eventually leaves and the three of them go to a room that's filled with deep couches and display units featuring clear domes behind which lie actual paper books. Bob's never seen one before, but he's seen pictures. Urging them to sit, Pete presses a button and a wall flickers and becomes transparent, showing distant mountains and grass that seems to stretch forever.

"Mikey used to sit in here a lot. He liked the illusion of space." Pete crosses his arms and looks outside. "But I'm getting ahead of myself. I've got pain patches if you want to use them, and you'll need drinks."

He turns his back to the view, snapping into host mode as he hurries away, coming back soon with a bag looped over his shoulder and holding a tray of drinks. Setting down the tray he kneels and unpeels the top of the bag, revealing medical supplies that Bob could only wish to own. Rummaging through the contents, Pete selects a pain patch, handing it to Gerard.

"Your neck," Pete says carefully. "I've anti-scar gel."

Gerard shakes his head as he takes the patch and sticks it to his upper arm. "No. Thanks, but no."

He doesn't offer explanations and Pete doesn't ask. Just re-seals the bag and pushes it to one side. Standing, he hands cups to Bob and Gerard. Taking one for himself, Pete settles on a couch, tucking up his feet. Cup balanced on his knees, he says. "It's Archalvanian fruit tea. I find it soothing."

He takes a sip, and Bob does the same, he takes a longer pull when he finds himself enjoying the light, sweet flavor and the way the tea seems to coat his throat in gentle warmth. Gerard's drinking too, seemingly unable to hold back a sound of contentment as he swallows. Bob looks at Pete, acknowledging the subtle kindness with a tilt of his head.

Pete smiles briefly, just the slightest curl of his lip. Then he wraps his hands around his cup and looks at Gerard.

"Tell me," Gerard says.

It takes a while for Pete to talk, his reluctance obvious, but eventually he does. "From what I understand, the police took Mikey and the others away and then sold them to the traffickers. He was kept with Frank at first."

Gerard swallows hard, and it's obvious he's struggling to hang onto his composure. "What about Ray and Matt?"

"They got separated from Mikey and Frank before they left your home planet, sorry." Pete twists the cup in his hands, looking inside instead of at Gerard. "Mikey and Frank ended up being celled close together. At first anyway."

"He wouldn't leave Mikey alone, not willingly."

"No, not willingly." Again, Pete's story falters as he looks at Gerard, as if gauging his reaction. "I picked their stories up bit by bit, but I know Mikey had nightmares about Frank yelling as he was taken away."

"Fuck, fuck. _Fuck_." Gerard's making no attempt to hide how he feels, and Bob reaches out, comforting the best he can.

Ignoring the interruption, Pete keeps speaking. "Mikey was left alone, and … Well, from what I was able to get from him, he pretty much shut down."

"What did they? I mean..."

Bob squeezes Gerard's hand. "Do you really want to know?"

"No. Yes. _I don't know_." Pulling out of Bob's hold, Gerard presses his hands against his thighs, trying to hide how he's shaking. "How did he end up here?"

Pete takes a drink, then sets his cup on the floor. "I told you that we free slaves. We were on a raid and I felt Mikey as soon as we got close. It was like he was calling me." Pete sounds distant for a moment, then shakes his head. "To cut a long story short, when I freed him I brought him home with me. Usually we send freed-peoples to new lives, but I couldn't with Mikey. Patrick said I was insane, but it felt right. The same way it felt right when I found Frank."

"He was in the same place?" Bob asks.

"No, we found him weeks later; he was in the med room of a punishment craft. He'd been body-controlled for months, and was about to be sold on again."

"Body-controlled?"

Pete looks blankly back at Bob, his voice level as he says, "It's a form of punishment used on excessively troublesome slaves. They’re made to wear a collar that’s linked to tiny electrodes that burrow into your neck and coil around your spine. Basically the threat of pain keeps the slaves in a pre-determined space."

"Frank would have hated that, he's always moving," Gerard says faintly.

"He nearly gutted Andy with a laser scalpel when he set him free," Pete says. "I'm just glad Mikey had told me about you all, when I saw the name and the matching description I brought Frank here. He settled down then. Having to take care of Mikey saved him."

"So they had each other, that's good." Gerard presses the heels of his fists against his eyes. "I just … I don't understand why they're not here now. They were _safe_. Why did they leave?"

"If I knew, I'd tell you," Pete says. "They talked to me, but obviously not enough."

There's bitterness in his tone, in the beat that surrounds him, and Bob winces at the harsh melody that fills the room. "I'm exhausted. I think we'd better go back to the _Love and Death_."

"What? No. We came for answers," Gerard protests, and pushes himself upright, swaying slightly.

"And we got them. Tomorrow we'll work out a plan, but you need to sleep."

"I agree," Pete says. "But stay here. I've plenty of room." He stands, looking down at Gerard. "You can use Mikey's bed."

Gerard nods, slowly says, "Okay."

~~~~

It feels strange being in an actual bed. Bob's used to narrow spaces and thin mattresses, the sound of his craft all around as he sleeps. Pete's beds are like something from another era; the mattresses made of Chicag foam and topped with heavy sheets that reach all the way to the floor. There are also actual fur blankets, which have to be artificial, though Bob still jumps a little when he turns over and ends with his nose pressed against the pointed snout of a Black bear.

Yawning, Bob rubs at his eyes and sits. It feels early still, the beats around him muted, soft, and he can tell Gerard's sleeping, curled up tightly in the middle of the other bed. He'd fallen asleep instantly the night before, but it had taken Bob a while to settle down, always mistrustful of situations in which he has little control. Still, he'd slept eventually, and feels refreshed now, enough that he swings his legs to the floor, stretching as he looks around.

In daylight the shadows of the previous evening take on actual form. The data pads stacked near the beds, a chair topped with a neatly folded selection of clothes. It's those that attract Bob's attention, and he stands, walking silently across the room. Crouching, he looks through the pile, holding up pants made of material that ripples with colours with each touch, a wide belt made of some kind of animal skin and several shirts, each one different shades of black.

"I tried to get him into other coloured t-shirts, but he was insistent on black."

Guiltily, Bob folds the clothes and turns to look at Pete. He's standing in the doorway and indicates with a jerk of his head that Bob should follow. Bob does, covering Gerard with another blanket before heading downstairs. Stepping into an anti grav tube is always a trip, and Bob wiggles his bare toes when he's lowered gently to the ground floor. Pete's waiting, looking wide-awake despite the early hour.

"I sent some messages and called in some favours." Pete says, and leads Bob into a room toward the back of the house. There's a terminal set in the wall and when Pete clicks his fingers rays of light beam onto the desk. Deftly moving his fingers between them, Pete brings up a 3D map that floats close to him and Bob. "That's Minkus. It's a class D planet in sector three and for the last year it's been getting mined for dust that's then processed into a hallucinogenic drug. We've been watching for a while."

Pete wiggles his fingers through the beams, and the map changes, zooming in on a mine. "Slaves are being used for the work. Thousands of them." The map changes again, showing a close up of a humanoid, its back bowed as it pushes a hover cart. Bob narrows his eyes, tries to see any features, but the slave's head is down and it's wearing a jump suit so baggy and stained that any details are completely hidden.

"I take it you're telling me this for a reason," Bob says.

"Word is an assignment of slaves came from Steriska the same time as Matt and Ray were taken. I'm working on getting actual names, but they tend to be lost in the cracks. Slaves are bodies, nothing more. Still, I'm almost certain they'll be there."

"So what, we raid and hope they're there and we can find them?" Bob stares at the map, considering. "I don't know their sound, but Gerard does, and Matt's a drummer, so that'll make it easier."

A snap of his hand and Pete shuts down the map. He leans against the desk, hip propped against the edge. "It's not that easy. Minkus is a shatter planet."

"Of course it is," Bob says, wearily, because it's not like anything can ever be simple. He finds Gerard and has to steal him from his home planet. They find Pete, and Mikey and Frank are already gone. This latest setback is just another in a long list, though this one carries the additional threat of possible death or madness, both things Bob tries to avoid.

"We'd have staged a raid months ago, but the sunspot activity was against us. And after the last time...."

"The last time?"

Pete stands and starts rearranging the data pads on the desk. "We sent someone to a shatter planet on recon. He was low-level, barely-trained." Pete's silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, there's a brush of guilt behind his words, "We thought he'd be okay. Turns out the resonances got him anyway."

"He died?"

Pete picks up a pad, swipes his thumb over the screen and tilts his hand so Bob can see a picture of a young man, his smile wide and feathers tied into his hair. "I go and read to him on the weekends. Sometimes it stops him screaming."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Pete flicks off the picture and stacks the data pad with the others, making them clatter together.

"You mentioned sunspots, how often do they appear?"

Pete tilts his head slightly, looking at Bob. "I had you researched last night. All reports suggest you're a lone-wolf now and shouldn't have been traveling with company at all. And yet here you are, with Gerard, and seemingly wanting to free slaves. You don't seem like someone prone to grand gestures."

"I'm not."

"So why the need for sunspot info?"

Bob glances up, automatically sensing outward until he can more clearly hear Gerard. "If Ray and Matt are on that planet, I need to go get them."

Seeming surprised, Pete steps closer. "It didn't say you had a death-wish either. I can feel you. _Hear_ you. If you get caught in the resonances you could go mad."

"Or die," Bob says. "I know. But I'm still going to find them. For Gerard."

Pete's still looking, eyes narrowed as he stares at Bob. "No, not for Gerard. At least, not only. I've been hearing a melody, but I thought it was just Gerard reaching out for the echoes of Mikey and Frank, but it's not. It's you too. You're building a new crew."

"I've got a crew," Bob says, anger flaring.

"No, you _had_ a crew." Pete doesn't back down at Bob's glare, or even at the warning sound he makes in the back of his throat. He charges ahead, saying, "You have to hear it, you and Gerard are tied together, and there's space for the others too."

"I don't _have_ to do anything." Deliberately, Bob steps away. "Sunspots, or do I have to look it up myself and do it totally alone?"

"No, I'll help." Activating the terminal, Pete brings up the map once more. "Any way I can."

Which is something Bob would never turn down, but it does leave one question. He looks at Pete. "Why?"

"Why what?" Pete's looking away, his foot turned on its side.

"No games, Pete. You know what I mean." Because the facts are, Pete's got nothing to gain in helping them. They're two strangers looking for more strangers and if things had played according to the universe's laws as Bob knows them, Pete's group should have sent them on their way the night before.

"Because of Mikey and Frank," Pete says eventually. "Because I love…loved them and they love Gerard." He points at the map, finger over bright flares of light. "There's a pattern, sort of. One clear hour every month."

"I don't suppose I have a month to prepare?"

Pete says, "How about three days?"

~~~

If he were pushed, Bob would admit that he's enjoying his time at Pete's. The beds are comfortable and the food good, even the fake steaks that Andy likes to serve are okay. He likes the novelty of solid ground under his feet, knowing that when he wakes in the morning he'll still occupy the same place in the universe, and the feel of wind in his hair. It won't last, of course, it never does, the itch of travel is a persistent thing and Bob's spent his life skimming through space. He could never stay here permanently, but for now, as Pete organises his group and tracks down info and supplies, Bob's content.

"I've been researching. I could fly down and get them. The resonances shouldn't affect me."

Bob turns his head and the grass tickles against his cheek. Shading his eyes with his hand, he looks up at Gerard who's clutching a data pad in his hand, looking determined. It's a preferable look to the worried frown he's worn since being told of Bob's plan, still, Bob reaches out and tugs at Gerard's ankle.

"One, you can't fly. Two, even if you could, you haven't got a craft, and don't even think about asking to use the _Love and Death_. Three. In the few days since you've known about the beat you've started to pick out rhythms on your own. You're a natural. Being down there is too risky." Bob closes his eyes, basking in the sun. "Plus, it's not like you're fit right now. I'd only have to come save your ass again."

Gerard sits, his frustration crashing around him like waves. "And who's going to save your ass when you're a dribbling mess on the floor?"

"That's not going to happen. Patrick's done the math. I've almost an hour to find them and get out.”

"That's _if_ Pete's info is right about where they'll be, or you don't get stopped by guards. Or caught flying in. Or fall over and break your legs, and if you do, well…" Gerard screws up his face. "Don't come running to me."

"I won't," Bob says, because the facts are, Gerard's concerns are valid. The chances are something will go wrong, and the odds are against him finding Matt or Ray, never mind finding them, getting them out and coming home. The thing is, though, despite all these facts, Bob has to try. He's spent years alone, trying to pretend that the gaps in his own melody were deliberate, but now, his sound is changing, becoming something more, fuller. And as irritated as it makes him feel, he knows he'd miss these new additions.

Gerard lies down, close but not touching. He's looking up at the sky, his eyes wide, and suddenly says. "I keep wondering what I'll do if we're too late."

"You'll survive," Bob says. He looks at Gerard who's rubbing the material of his… Mikey's shirt between his fingers. "Life goes on, the universe keeps growing and you'll eventually forget."

Gerard rolls on his side and props his head on his hand, his fingers against the scars on his neck. "Did you?"

Bob thinks about pretending to misunderstand, but somehow, this moment seems made for truths. "No."

Pushing back the hair that's fallen in front of his eyes, Gerard says, "Tell me about them."

Bob doesn't know where to start. The first time he met Bert and realised the crazy fucker with the lank hair and insane smile was the one who'd pulled him close? That first insane journey where they'd learned to live in cramped conditions? Falling over one another and invading scant personal space? Concerts on tiny planets with an audience you could count on two hands? Fights and arguments and struggling to survive each day?

Flying with Quinn sitting behind him, yelling with delight as they flashed through space.

Waking up with Jepha crammed into the same bunk, his face pressed against Bob's neck.

Cleaning down the ceiling when Bert experimented with firecracker soup.

Running with Branden, them both holding drums, a muskhog nipping at their heels.

Bob could tell those memories and a thousand others. They're the ones he should remember, but time and distance has made them blurred at the edges as opposed to others that remain crystal clear. The ones with cutting edges and sharp corners and even now, Bob can recall every detail like it happened yesterday. Sticky blood and pale skin. Crooked limbs and final pleas, the scent of fire and piss and shit. Shaking hands against raw wounds and having to sit as the beats around him slowed. Slowed. Gone.

"They were fantastic," Bob says. "They were my crew."

Gerard reaches out, entwines his fingers with Bob's and holds on.

~~~

It takes Pete nearly two days to get the information they need. He uploads the data to the _Love and Death_ , co-ordinates from where the slaves were last seen and Patrick's careful calculations, the time Bob can land painstakingly detailed. Bob's got a stunner nestled against each hip and a bag filled with fake steak sandwiches, pushed into his hands by Andy, who'd left without saying goodbye. Now all Bob has to do is leave, but Gerard's nowhere to be seen.

"We'll have to go," Bob says, and he can sense Gerard, but he doesn't appear, even when they get into the vehicle that will take them to the port.

"We'll look after him," Pete says. He jumps inside, laughing when Patrick does the same and stumbles slightly. "Lost your footing, Trick?" He grins over at Patrick and sits close, leaning against him.

Patrick rolls his eyes and doesn't reply.

Bob can sense the comfort they have in each other and he's focusing on that--the way their melody is based on love and warmth and friendship--when he hears Gerard yell. He's running from the house and when he's close he jumps inside, despite them not moving at all.

"I'm coming with you. I know you said I shouldn't, but I’m coming anyway." Shoulders squared and chin up, he looks at Bob. At Pete and Patrick. "Aren't you going to talk me out of it?"

Bob pushes his bag into Gerard's hands, says, "No.”

"I see where Mikey gets his stubborn streak from," Pete says, pulling Gerard into a hug.

"It's good you're going." Patrick's looking at a data pad, scanning calculations once again. "You'll be able to withstand the resonances longer than Bob and you'll be able to feel Ray and Matt better when you're together."

"And you couldn't have said that before?" Gerard says.

Patrick looks up from the data pad. "You weren't going before."

"And now I am," Gerard says. "So what? We hold hands or hug or what?"

Grinning, Pete shakes his head. "Well you could, but no. Just being close will do it, your sound is joined anyway."

"It is?"

Gerard sounds surprised but pleased, and when he sits close, Bob lets him, his hand against Gerard's side as they're taken toward the port.

The mood changes when they approach the _Love and Death_. Bob rubs his palm along her hull and unseals the door. It hisses open and when he steps inside he knows as much as he's enjoyed the stay at Pete's, this is home.

"Nice," Patrick says. He's looking around, taking in the small kitchen and living area. Pete does the same, but his looking extends to touching too, including checking out the data pad in Gerard's bunk.

"Oh hey, this picture is terrible." Pete holds up the data pad which is still set to his word-streams. "That bovine hat is terrible."

"I told you not to get it." Patrick stands next to Pete, and he shakes his head as he looks at the picture. "You look like a rabid chilipic."

"I hear the rabid look is in this season, very now," Pete says.

"If you're a chilipic. I swear, they see you coming."

Pete taps the screen, and the picture blinks out of sight. "I traded good food and medicine for that hat. It's awesome."

Patrick looks at Pete, considering. "Yeah, it kinda is."

Stowing the fake steaks, Bob revisits his craft, enjoying the feel of her full of people, the beats inside of her vibrant and alive. Except, Pete and Patrick are standing, getting ready to leave.

"You need to go soon," Patrick says. "If you get the chance, note down security points. Who knows if we can raid in the future?"

"I will," Bob promises.

"And come back." Pete's at the door now, his smile nothing but a memory. "And if you don't want to come back, let us know what happens. Don't just disappear."

Gerard looks directly at Pete. "We won't. We're coming back."

Pete fakes a smile then. "Good luck, and be careful."

~~~~

Through careful planning they arrive at Minkus close to the one hour safety window. Nervous, and maintaining an orbit safely outside of detection range, Bob sits at the conn and looks down at the planet. From this distance it looks an even dusky red, but up close that changes to a dense layer of cloud and constant arcs of electricity that streak through the sky. Even here Bob can feel the faint effects of a planet that's never still, the resonances an itch against his skin. Absently, he scratches his nails against his arm and then looks back when he hears the door slide open.

"You've been up here a long time," Gerard says. He sounds much better now, only a slight huskiness hinting at the damage he did to his throat. He also looks better, physically at least, the strain still apparent around his mouth and eyes.

Bob turns in his seat, grooves pressing against his thighs. "I was thinking."

"Really?" Gerard sits, pushes his hair out of his eyes. "We go in, we've got sixty minutes to look. If we get in trouble I let you deal. If I fire the stunner without imminent personal danger you're going to kick my ass. Have I missed anything?"

"I think that about sums it up," Bob says, because they've gone over this simple plan multiple times already. It's the only thing they can do being as they're dependent on an hour window and a possible location for Ray and Matt that may already be months out of date. "I was thinking about if the worst happens."

Gerard sighs. "I'm not going to get myself killed."

"Probably not," Bob allows. "If you listen to me anyway. Like you should do now." He waits a moment, until he's sure Gerard's staying silent. "If the worst happens and we don't get out in time, you need to kill me."

"What?!" Gerard sits forward in his seat so he look at Bob. "Why?"

"Because you don't want to be carting around some gibbering loon."

"So what? I slit your throat and do what? Survive by myself on a planet where the only inhabitants are slaves and their jailers. Can you see me eating leaves and living in a cave? Or should I eat you? Some nice leg. Oh, but it would have to be raw because it's not like I could make a _fucking fire_. Or I could just pull your corpse back to the _Love and Death,_ shove you in your bunk and eat fake steaks and wait to be discovered. Just me and your corpse, hanging out."

"You finished?" Bob asks, when it looks like Gerard's run out of steam.

"Yeah," Gerard looks away, anywhere but at Bob. "I can't kill you."

"Before, you said you couldn't pay. But now you can. Promise me."

Bob hates pushing so hard. Gerard's responding sense of betrayal is breath-taking, but Bob doesn't back down, just waits. Because while he's willing to risk madness, no way does he want to live with it. And he needs Gerard to understand.

"Fine. Okay." Gerard stands, and while he's saying yes, everything else about him is screaming no.

It has to be enough.

~~~~

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Gerard says. He looks tense, pulled in on himself as he sits in the chair behind Bob. It's regrettable, but Bob needed that promise, and now that he has it he can concentrate fully on the task ahead.

Below, Minkus is slowly changing colour, dusky red bleeding into pale pink, and Bob knows the sunspots are about to fully bloom. He reaches for the headset and pulls it down, fingers brushing against his chest to set off the timer before he fully engages with his craft. They've got an hour, and that includes landing and take off. One hour in which to find two men amongst thousands.

Bob's always liked a challenge. "Let's go."

He pulls the headset down completely, and is at once aligned perfectly with his craft, able to manipulate the lines of light at his fingertips as he guides his craft through the tangled waves and ribbons of sound twisting through space. Instinctively Bob selects the one that'll guide them to the surface and the co-ordinates supplied by Pete. Bob moves his hands over invisible controls as the _Love and Death_ speeds through space and starts to plummet down. Consciousness pulled outward, he becomes one with the universe, can hear the beat of life from thousands of directions. He senses them all as a jumbled mass, and takes in their sound, their rhythm, as he follows co-ordinates, his craft circling earth pitted with mining tunnels and make-shift buildings that seem to blend into the rocks on which they stand.

Concentrating, Bob tries to find the two specific beats within the multitude pulsing from below. The ones he can sense are faint and sickly, made weak from living in a place where to be at one with the beat of the universe is to die or be driven mad, Bob can feel the pain in each pulse. It is seeped into the ground and makes everything feel wrong--a taint that makes him cringe, his own rhythm soured as he takes on the twisted melodies of those below.

Still, he has to land, and he pushes on, gaining range when he desperately reaches out, and feels Gerard reaching out in return, his sound joining Bob's, making it stronger, helping ward off the residual wrongness of this place.

Bob lands the _Love and Death_ , sweating, his body aching as pulls off his headset, looks back and says, "Thank you."

"It was nothing," Gerard says, and looks at his own timer. "Let's go."

Bob does. He stands, staggers a little--his hand against the back of his chair--then follows Gerard into the main cabin where he's slinging on one of the bags they'd left in readiness. The bags contain medication, weapons, water, supplies needed for successful rescue and Bob holds onto faint optimism as he puts his own bag on his back.

"Five minutes gone," Gerard says, and he's unsealing the door. They both step outside.

It feels wrong, dead, and every part of Bob's body is crawling. Like he's walking into a vacuum, except this vacuum is littered with white noise. Sound that's taking these brief moments to try and be heard. These sounds, though, are of the dead and dying, and Bob's faltering when Gerard grabs his hand, squeezing tight.

"Listen for them, please."

It's not like it was when Bob was pulled toward Gerard, or even Pete. This is like listening for a negative sound, something that should be there and isn't, and Bob's head is throbbing with pain as he looks around. He walks slowly forward, Gerard's hand securely in his own.

"Wait. Is that…?"

Bob's heard it too. The faintest hint of a beat, made familiar by Gerard's proximity. Bob reaches out toward the sound, feels as it nudges against his own, easing into a melody that immediately feels right, another two parts clicking into place.

The beats are distant, too distant. Bob asks, "Do we fly or run?"

Gerard's shifting in place, rocking foot to foot, impatient but obviously much more comfortable than Bob feels. Squinting against the solar flares that are bleaching the ground white, Bob narrows down the origin of the sound, pushing through the ache in his head until he's sure of a direction. He remembers seeing buildings there, the mine that Patrick had carefully marked on the map of this area. The way Joe schooled his expression as he recounted discovered facts, amounts of slaves, what they did and when.

"We'll be seen if we fly," Bob points out.

"And we'll run out of time if we run," Gerard says. He pulls at his shirt, peeling it from his body and already he looks flushed.

Making a quick decision, Bob runs back to his craft. "We'll fly." He steps back inside and throws himself into the pilot's seat, trusting Gerard to seal the door.

It's a short flight, one where they barely skim the ground as Bob steers them past rocky outcrops and tunnels cut into the mountainside. He lands close to a group of buildings, pulling his stunner out of its holster as he opens the door. At first everything is still, and then there's an explosion of noise, laser fire and a bot whirring as it appears from where it was guarding the mine entrance. Dropping back, Bob fires, swearing as the bot evades, twisting in mid air.

Bob yells, "Can you keep that busy while I go look?"

Gerard's plastered against the other side of the doorway, and he nods, focused only on the bot. "Go, I'll watch your back."

Which is enough reassurance for Bob, and he jump-rolls, scrambling to his feet and running toward the nearest building. He keeps firing as he runs, and when a guard appears from one of the buildings, yelling as he charges toward him, Bob does not hesitate to take him down with one perfectly aimed shot.

Sheltering behind a metallic wall, he glances over at Gerard who's peering around the doorway, firing in wavering arcs. He's flinching with each hit and explosion of sound, but when Bob hesitates, worried about leaving him alone, Gerard looks his ways and yells, "Go!"

Bob does. Glancing at his timer, he reaches out, focusing only on the sounds that feel right, the ones that are amplified by Gerard's presence. The problem is, those sounds are pulling Bob in two differing ways--one toward the mine and the other in the opposite direction and obviously further away.

"Fuck." Bob's torn, but practicalities win out, and he starts running toward the dark entrance of the mine. He blinks when he gets inside, plunged into darkness after the bright light of outside. Hands outstretched, he presses himself against the wall, the sharp stones catching at his hands as he walks. Bob needs speed but has to remain cautious, too. His head is spinning. The deeper he goes the less he can hear, and he doesn’t know if it’s some natural phenomenon or something deliberately created to help control the slaves. Whatever it is it feels like part of his existence has been cut away, leaving him off balance as he listens for what should be there.

But it's not. It's becoming silent, nothing to hear, no voices or echoes, just dead nothingness and Bob's forced back into his own head, remembered snippets of memories and conversations attempting to fill in for the absence of sound. The beat he's following fades, is gone, and he's not even sure if he's going the right way. He goes on anyway, having to trust his own decisions, even if the urge to turn back is strong.

Bob looks at the timer on his chest. Nine minutes gone and he's stuck in a tunnel with no end in sight and no way of knowing if he's going the right way. Bob speeds up, running now, his fingers trailing against the wall. Two more minutes pass and he's sprinting, feeling his feet pound against rock, then, finally, he sees a light. It's a faint glow bleeding on the walls and floor, and Bob slows. He's panting for breath, can feel the air leave his lungs and be pulled back in, but without sound it's as if it's not happening at all, and he breathes harder, holding up his hand in front of his face so he can feel the expulsion of air, needing the reassurance.

Heart racing, Bob inches forward, always aware of time ticking away. But he keeps it slow, steady, and when he eases around a corner he finally sees the slaves.

They're in groups, each one using matter breaker rods on sections of the walls. They're wearing masks, and slowly passing the rods in concise sweeps, letting the resulting dust float to the floor where it lands in shallow troughs. None of the slaves speak, or move anything but the rods. Bob sees Humanoids and Tocassups, their tentacles dry and scaly against the ground. There's even a small group of Swalens, their skin rippling with each pass. What Bob doesn't see is Matt or Ray. Not that he expected to, it couldn't be that easy, but the problem is, without sound he doesn't know how to find them.

Hoping he's hidden in a shadow, he looks for guards and sees two standing on either side of the cavern. They're both holding stunners and watching the slaves, apparently not concerned with the entrance at all. It's the break Bob needs, and he holds both of his stunners, aiming and firing both before anyone can look his way. The lasers cut across the room, and both guards collapse heavily to the ground.

"Ray Toro! Matt Pelissier!" Bob yells, and keeps yelling despite the lack of resulting sound. He runs forward, pushing into the mass of slaves that line the walls. Instantly they cringe from him, dropping to their knees with their heads bowed and Bob hates how frightened they appear as he looks at each one, having no choice but to cup his hand under their chins and lift their heads so he can see.

"Come on, come on," Bob says, and he's looking at each obvious humanoid, all too aware of the time that's slipping away. He's regretting leaving Gerard behind, because he at least knows Matt and Ray. Bob's going off holo pictures and descriptions that are bound to have changed in the year they've been away.

Bob's nearly half way around the cavern when he finds someone resembling Matt. He's much thinner than the picture, and his hair is long, pulled back and slick to his head with sweat and dust. But there's something about him that makes Bob pause, hook his finger in the strap of the mask and pull it free.

"Matt?"

There's no reply. Bob wouldn't have expected one even if Matt could hear. Still, Bob knows it's him, even with the lack of beat there's something there, a lingering feeling that indicates this is someone special to Gerard--part of his band. If Bob wasn't stuck in a soundless cavern, the unconscious guard lying close by and one more person to rescue before potential madness or death could possibly overtake him, he'd celebrate. As it is, all he does is grab Matt's hand and start to pull him toward the tunnel.

Thankfully he follows passively, head down and deliberately looking away from Bob.

"You need to run," Bob says--mouthes--trying to hurry their pace. It doesn't go well. Matt's slow, stumbling often and he keeps wincing and pressing his hand against his ear as they come closer to the entrance. Physically he's out of shape, gasping for breath and weakening the further they attempt to run. But as the silence is stripped away, Bob can feel him, his beat faint but there, already merging with Bob's own and reaching out, joining with Gerard's. It's a relief because the last thing Bob needs is to rescue the wrong man. Still, by the time they see the light that signifies the entrance Bob's practically holding Matt up, which of course is nothing new, apparently Bob's new calling in life is holding up Gerard and his band.

"You're not Them." Matt finally looks at Bob and he sounds hesitant, as if he's remembering how to pick out words.

"I'm a friend of Gerard's," Bob says simply.

Abruptly, Matt pulls away, putting space between him and Bob. "You're not fucking with my mind like that. He's dead, had been for a while."

"So people keep telling me, but he's fine." Bob takes a step toward Matt, but he cringes away and looks back along the tunnel.

"You can't-- You can't get me like this. I've survived too long. I'm not mad. I'm not. Gerard's dead. So fuck off and leave me alone."

"I swear I'll punch you out and carry you if I have to." It's a threat Bob's prepared to carry out, but for now he keeps taking. "I know it's hard to believe, and you don't even know this stuff, but just _listen_."

Back to the wall, Matt looks at Bob. "Listen to what? More lies?"

"The beat that surrounds you, the currents in the air, the fucking internal thing that's always there. I know it's faint here but Gerard said you were tuned in, so listen already."

It's a last ditch attempt, and Bob's curling his hand into a fist when Matt tilts his head to one side. He keeps looking at Bob, suspicion in the way he holds himself back, as if Bob's about to attack. Then, slowly, he says, "You feel like Gerard." Eyes widening, Matt presses his hands against his face. "I'm going mad. All this time and I go mad thinking about Gerard. Fucking typical."

"You really need to shut up," Bob says. Unable to wait any longer he grabs for Matt and starts to pull him toward the entrance. "You're not going mad. Gerard's waiting outside."

"Gerard's dead."

Hanging onto his patience, Bob tightens his hold. "He's really not. See."

They step outside, both blinking against the harsh light. Relieved, Bob sees that Gerard is still at the doorway of the _Love and Death_ , holding the stunner laxly, the remains of a bot a pile of smoking metal at his feet.

"Fuck, Gee's got a gun. Now I _know_ I've gone mad."

"You and me both," Bob mutters, when Gerard yells in delight and runs toward them, not checking his surroundings at all.

"Matt!"

Bob steps to one side when Gerard pulls Matt into a tight hug. He holds onto him, hands tight against Matt's back, and the beat around them strengthens, becomes louder, their melody more complete.

"I thought you were dead." Matt pulls back, his hands still on Gerard's sides. "We saw you go down. They _killed_ you."

"No, I was pulled into the audience, I was hidden," Gerard says, his smile fading. "I tried to get out, but there were too many, and when I did you were all gone, and I would have come after you but..."

"Promise me you're real. _Promise_."

Gerard holds up his hand, links his little finger around Matt's. "I promise."

It's a powerful moment, the first step of things sliding into place and Bob would allow it to linger, give them the reunion they deserve, but he can't. Time is passing and he's still one man down. Plus, there's the ever present danger of guards. They've been lucky so far but that can't last, the alarm has to have been raised by now.

"We really need to find Ray and get out of here." He glances at his timer, twenty-two minutes now and all he's got is the faintest hint of a beat with more guards no doubt on their way. Overhead the flares are increasing in frequency, nearly at their peak, and after that it's a countdown until they fade again, allowing the resonances to take over once more.

Finally looking away from Matt, Gerard asks Bob, "Can you feel Ray?"

With the addition of Gerard and Matt, it's easier to listen, to sense the faint beat that is Ray. It's pulling Bob away from the mine, but more problematically, away from the _Love and Death_. Trying to work out where Ray could be, Bob attempts to remember the long distance aerial maps he'd been shown, but the details aren't forthcoming, hazy with the constant awareness of time and the threat of detection. Frustrated, he closes his eyes and tries to picture details, the way they'd sat and watched Pete bring up the maps, how Gerard had circled the floating 3D image, looking intent, his face tinged with colour from the lines.

"Gerard," Bob says. "Back at Pete's, you said something about a wheel."

"Yeah. It reminded me of the history data pad I was reading." Gerard drops to his knees and uses his finger to score lines in the dirt. Sketching quickly, he looks up, pushing his hair out of his eyes in a gesture of impatience. "They used a kind of wheel on carts. Not hover carts, though -- they were pulled by something called horses. Can you imagine using animals to work like that?"

"They had to get around somehow," Bob says, and crouches so he can look at the crudely drawn map. He points to the center of the sketch. "It feels like it's coming from that direction. Matt, that's the processing area, right?"

Matt shades his eyes, looking in the direction that Bob's pointing. "Yeah."

"How close is it?"

"About an hours walk," Matt says. "I've never worked there. Only the non-combatives can, but we pass it on the way to the mines."

Mouth a thin line, Gerard stands and rests his hand against Matt's arm. "They make you walk all that way?"

"We're slaves, Gee. Slaves don't get rides."

"You _were_ a slave," Gerard says, his beat one of determination, sure ringing sound. "You're free now."

"Which counts for nothing if we're all dead." Bob looks at the map again, listens to the faint sound of Ray. "Will Ray be at the processing facility?"

Matt looks unsure. "He could be, or he could be loading. The landing field is in that direction, too."

"Fantastic," Bob says bleakly. He knows that Ray could be anywhere between the mine and the processing plant. That is if he's even loading dust today. The chances of finding Ray are slim, but Bob knows he'll take them. There's no way he can't when Gerard's looking at him, utterly confident in Bob's ability to pull this off.

Quickly making a decision, Bob starts toward the _Love and Death_. It's the only way they'll get to Ray in time, and also, it makes Bob feel more secure when he's inside his craft. He feels far too exposed here, the stillness unsettling as he waits for inevitable detection. "We'll fly toward the processing plant. I'll stay low and you'll have to listen for Ray. Tell me when he's close."

"You want me to find him?"

Gerard sounds uncertain, feels uncertain, but Bob's got no time for reassurances. He looks back, impatiently indicating Gerard should follow. "We don't have time to walk, and while I can fly and listen at the same time, it'll be easier if you do it, quicker too. _You_ need to do it."

"But..." Holding Matt close, Gerard trails off, and his beat is a rapidly twisting sound, echoing the accelerated changes in his emotional responses. He looks up, posture straightening. "I can do that."

"You can," Bob agrees. He unseals the door of his craft and waits as Gerard helps Matt inside. Glancing at his timer, Bob curses softly and is about to go to the conn when Gerard grabs hold of his arm. His fingers are warm, gripping tightly and Bob can feel the thrum of Gerard's pulse, the melody that surrounds him as he chews at his bottom lip, looks away, then directly at Bob.

"If I were a good man I'd say we should fly away now and not look back," Gerard says. He loosens his grip. "I'm not a good man."

Arm cold from the lack of contact, Bob concentrates on sealing the door. "That's a matter of opinion."

There's a pause, then Gerard says, "Thank you." He jumps when there's a thump against the outside of the craft, raised voices and sounds of laser fire signaling they've been found at last. "What do you want me to do?"

"It'll help if we stay together, so you come up front with me." Bob walks forward, settles into his seat and wipes his palms on his lap as Gerard helps Matt settle in the empty chair before sitting on the floor to his side. He's resting against Matt's legs, looking nervous as Bob twists around in his seat. "You know Ray, instinctively you know his beat. You both do. All you can do is listen, when you get close you'll know."

Matt leans close to Gerard, bracing his hand against the chair arm as he talks softly. "How the hell are we supposed to hear Ray when we're in a space ship?"

Normally Bob would bristle at his craft being called a space ship, but right now he’s too worried about the hits the _Love and Death_ is taking and he leaves it for Gerard to explain.

Reaching for his headset Bob slips it down, breathes deeply as the lines of light appear in front of his eyes, the universe exposed and ready to lead him away. Except this time he has to skim the surface of this world, keep the speed low and his flying precise, all the while listening to Gerard and Matt, and in extension, Ray.

"I'm going now," Bob warns, and he reaches out his hands, manipulates light as the _Love and Death_ roars from the ground, powering through the bots that charge toward them, laser beams slicing at the metal and bathing the conn in bursts of red light.

Keeping control is hard, it's wrong to be on this planet and Bob's skin crawls with the need to blast into deep space. Instead he slows, follows the curve of rock formations and a path made dark by countless marching slaves. Attention caught between holding his flight path and the hurried conversation between Gerard and Matt.

“The _Love and Death_ is a craft, and you won't believe what we haven't been told." Gerard turns so he can see Matt clearly, so obviously wanting to explain about the beat of the universe, the way it's used and understood. "I'll tell you all about it later, it's awesome, but for now... Remember, back home, when you said you could hear us sometimes? That night when we played at the club and the kids kept yelling for us to play more? When we left and the suns were rising as we hid the equipment and you said you could still hear our music? I think you could. I think you could hear us all."

Head resting against Gerard's, Matt closes his eyes and there's the faintest thread of remembered song, bound into the melody that already fills the air. "We sounded good."

"We sounded _awesome_ ," Gerard says. He closes his eyes too, his nose wrinkling as he concentrates. "Can you remember Ray?"

"He'd used that new cleaner, by the time we'd finished the set his hair was exploding from his head." Matt smiles, and the melody between him and Gerard tightens, rich with shared memories and love. It's something Bob misses, and his chest aches with loss at this reminder of long friendship and people who, without knowing it, have created their own song.

Gerard laughs, his head resting against Matt's arm. "He was wearing stik boots. Fucking shredding while stuck to the wall." His laughter quiets as Gerard prompts. "Do you remember how he sounded? Not singing, but after? Everyone has their own sound like that. Listen to me, not my voice, the sound the surrounds me, my beat. It's there, and I know you can hear it."

“Right.” Matt looks skeptical, but he goes quiet, and Bob assumes he’s trying to hear. Eventually he says, "It feels like you."

"It is me," Gerard says. "Now listen again. Listen for Ray."

Again there’s silence until Matt says, hesitantly. "I can feel him. I think."

"Yeah, me too,” Gerard says. “I think... Stop!"

Bob winces as someone touches his back. It divides his attention, senses thrown outwards but also in, and it feels like he's been wrenched in two as he brings the _Love and Death_ into a hard landing. Pulling off his headset, Bob swallows against the nausea and pushes himself up, his hand against his chair.

"I'm sorry." Gerard looks stricken as he stands. "I forgot, and I felt him, really strong. We both did."

Matt nods his agreement, looking unsure as he glances from Gerard to Bob.

"Just don't do it again," Bob says shortly. His head is aching and the urge to just take off and go is even stronger now, but he makes for the door, Gerard and Matt close behind.

When Bob unseals the door it's to more outcrops of rock, more bleak horizon stretching far into the distance. There are no guards yet, no bots patrolling the well worn path that leads towards a cleared area marked out with white lights pushed into the rocky ground. The lights are surrounding a craft, much bigger than the _Love and Death_ its door wide open and exposing the troughs full of dust that are stacked up inside. More dust is being delivered by a small group of slaves who are pushing giant hover carts, each one piled high and as Bob watches they maneuver the carts onto an anti grav hoist that floats each one inside.

Bob knows Ray is there somewhere; he can feel him, a missing part of Matt and Gerard's melody. But he can't see him. All the slaves look the same, the same shuffling movements and faded robes, their skin turned red with the sun.

"I can't see him." Matt's propped against the door, Gerard at his other side. "What if we're wrong? He could be anywhere."

 

"We'll find him and set him free," Gerard says. His confidence is good to hear, but also terrifying, because Bob knows that if it comes down to it he'll have to leave Ray behind. The same way he left the slaves in the caves. He thinks he should be feeling guilty about that, but he's not. He has to worry about himself, then Gerard, then the band. Anyone else doesn't feature at all, except in the way Bob's memorising details, ready to pass them on to Pete as soon as he can.

"Look," Gerard says suddenly, pointing toward a slave who's just eased himself out of the craft door. He staggers when he hits the floor, landing on his knees. Within seconds a guard appears and jumps down too, yelling something as he kicks at the slave's leg until he stands.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Enraged, Gerard runs toward the slave and guard. Frantically, Bob reaches out to stop Matt following, but all he gets is fabric slipping through his fingers.

Furious, Bob follows, all too aware of how this rescue is going badly wrong. Grabbing his stunner, he aims at the guard who's drawing his own weapon, pointing it in the direction of the rapidly approaching Gerard. Bob fires first, and misses, his shot hitting the side of the craft. Immediately he fires again, and this time he hits, the guard dropping to the ground.

"I swear I will end you." Bob runs past Matt and shoots the guard in the chest, ending his frantic words into the transmitter built into his glove. Stepping over the body, Bob barely resists the urge to grab Gerard and shake him. "What the fuck do you think you were doing?"

"He was kicking him." Unrepentant, Gerard grabs the slave's arm and pushes back the slave's hood so he can see his face, frantic as he exclaims. "Do you know someone called Ray? Ray Toro? We think he's here."

The slave shakes his head and tries to walk away, looking only at the empty cart that's positioned close by. Gerard doesn't let go.

"You have to know him. He's here. I know it."

"Gerard, stop. You're frightening him." Gently, Bob uncurls Gerard's fingers, unsurprised when the slave runs away.

"But he's here, Bob. I can feel him."

"I know," Bob says, because he can, too, like an itch of a mending wound. He looks around, thankful that for now there’s no more approaching guards. But he does see a slave standing behind a laden cart, looking over and staring at Matt and Gerard. Bob turns Gerard around. "I think someone's seen you."

"Ray!"

It should be a touching scene, Gerard running to embrace Ray, Matt at their side, his arms wrapped around them both. But all Bob can focus on are the alarms that are blaring, the dead body at his feet and the fact the more guards and bots are probably on their way. He looks at the _Love and Death_. It's only a short run away but it feels like it's miles. He grabs hold of Gerard's shirt, pulling him back.

"Come on, we’ve got him now, run!"

In reply, Gerard grabs hold of Ray’s arm and starts to run, Matt at their side. Hanging back Bob looks at the group of slaves that have frozen in place, then makes himself turn away. His craft can only take so many, and he can't risk freeing more. It would take too long, be too risky when the other three are already relying on him for their escape. He still feels terrible, guilt pressing into him hard.

Hyperaware of the alarm that still wails he runs toward his craft, all the while looking around and watching out for more guards. When he feels a shot pass close to his body he dives for cover, rocks stinging against his skin as he rolls behind the empty hover cart. Crouching, Bob looks around the side and sees two guards standing near the open hold, stunners aimed in his direction, pinning him in place. Grabbing hold of the cart, Bob starts to pull it back toward the _Love and Death_ , hoping he can't be seen.

Which is when the hover cart explodes, blowing him off his feet. Thrown through the air, Bob gasps at the impact and moans when he feels the skin on his hands tear, his hip and side nothing but flaring pain as he lies on the ground, trying to pull air into his lungs. It takes too long, and Bob's on the edge of panic, feeling light-headed when he finally manages to breathe. He takes shallow breaths and pushes himself up on one hand, firing wildly and making the guards drop back.

"Bob! Bob!" Gerard's standing in the entrance of the _Love and Death_ close enough that Bob can see how frightened he is, and even if he couldn't see, Bob would be able to feel, the addition of Ray making their beats that much stronger. Bob can't help focusing in, and immediately regrets it as the echoes of the resonances make themselves known, reminders of the wrongness of this planet, the utter silences and vacuums of sound and Bob rolls on his side, retching as he tries to make sense of something that's just not there.

"Bob, fuck, talk to me." Gerard starts toward Bob, but one of the guards fires, and Gerard jumps back, the laser passing too close.

Head down, Bob spits and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Despite the pain, he throws himself to one side, rolling between the cover of a jagged area of rock. There's a depression between two of the biggest boulders, and Bob jams himself into the small space, stones digging into his legs as he pushes himself up. Breathing hard, he wills his hand to stop shaking as he aims his stunner at the guards. They're partially concealed by the smoke from the ruined hover cart, but Bob fires in the direction of both anyway, the smoke turning red with each blast.

Safe for the moment, Bob presses his hand against his side and looks over at his craft. He can see inside the open door, Gerard standing just inside with Matt and Ray behind him and Bob can hear him too, both in slices of words and beat. He can hear fear, reassurances, friendship and love as Gerard talks to Ray, explaining things that need much more time.

As they talk, Bob assesses the distance between his position and his craft. It's not far; close enough that it'll only take moments to cross. But, there's no cover and one of the guards is running between boulders and trees so he can take a position flanking Bob.

“There are reinforcements on the way, surrender or face death.”

Bob replies with a flurry of shots, causing the guard to retreat fully behind the boulder. The other guard has remained close to the slaves and is pushing them into a moving line, using them as a shield. He's looking at Bob through the bodies, ready to fire in an instant, and they're stuck in a stalemate. Bob trapped between the two guards. All he can do is sit and watch as time passes, and the solar flares begin to fade.

"We're not leaving you there."

Bob looks back at Gerard who’s shaking as he fires toward the guards, his shots high so there's no chance of hitting the slaves. Tactically it's a terrible move, useless for actual defense and Gerard obviously realises that, too. He passes the gun to Matt and Bob knows he's going to do something stupid. He can tell by the way Gerard's poised as if he's going to run and the tension he's radiating in waves.

"Gerard, you need to stay there. Barricade yourself in and contact Pete, he'll get to you somehow." Frantically Bob tries to urge Gerard inside, but he can feel the resonances as they begin once more. A vibration that seems planet wide--faint right now, but getting worse--strikes, and Bob's head is swimming, pain sudden and fierce as he curls up, his hands pressed against his ears. It doesn't help. All Bob can hear is that sound, bone deep and slicing through his body. He shakes uncontrollably as the resonances increase in intensity, until they're all he can hear, can sense, and he's clawing at the rock, trying to drag himself forward, desperate to get away, prompting a fresh wave of laser fire that hits the ground around him.

He gets nowhere. He's helpless against the relentless onslaught, and it's not going to stop, Bob knows that. The same way he knows he's losing his grip on his own mind--memories and capabilities not slipping but being ripped away. It's everything he ever feared, and he forces himself to look up, face wet with snot and tears. Sees Gerard, says, weakly. "You promised. Please."

Gerard wraps his hand around Matt's, lifts the stunner and points it toward Bob, then drops it again. He looks wretched, mouthing apologies as he suddenly runs toward Bob.

Bob tries to yell, but he's forgotten the words, can only watch as a laser beam just misses Gerard.

Who then collapses to the ground, knocked over by Matt who's firing blindly at the guard. He keeps coming and Matt keeps firing, most of his shots going wide as he stands over Gerard. Finally, with more luck than judgment, one shot hits and the guard falls to the ground.

"Gee, come on,” Matt urges, but in his haste to protect Gerard, Matt forgets to watch his own back. The shot from the second guard hits him dead on, and Matt falls forward, blanketing Gerard as the stunner rolls across the ground.

Reaching out from under Matt’s body, Gerard grabs the stunner and starts to fire wildly.

Bob tries to yell, to move, but he hurts and the _sound_. He can feel it invade his body, no sense or reason, just this constant, terrible whine and Bob wants his mom, but he's forgotten her name, her face. He wants his craft but he's forgotten how to fly. He curls up further, because it's too much, he can't hold on any longer. There's someone jabbing at his shoulder, though, insistent. Finally he opens his eyes.

"You're a lazy fucker, Bryar, you need to get the fuck up. Now."

Bob tries to push Jepha away, it's too early for this and it's not even his turn to fly.

"Get up!"

Jepha's shaking him now, fingers digging in cruelly, and Bob wants to ask what they drank the night before, but he can't find the words. He looks at Jepha, tries to convey how much he's hurting, and that he should just leave him alone.

"I know," Jepha says, gently. He kneels, resting his hand against Bob's cheek. "I wouldn't wake you if it wasn't important."

"We'd do it ourselves, but you know."

Bob whimpers when he moves his head so he can see Quinn. He's leaning against a boulder, legs crossed as he watches Bert walk close, Branden at his side. Bert drops down to the ground, his hair brushing against Bob's cheek when he looks at him face to face.

"I missed you, fucker." He's grinning, just this side of manic and when he bends in for a kiss his lips are dry. If he could, Bob would tell him he misses him too, all of them, but Bert seems to know anyway, his smile fading as he looks intently at Bob. "We know, and we'd keep you if we could."

"Yeah," Quinn says, kneeling next to Bert. "It sounds like philosophical bullshit, but it's not your time."

"Not even close." Jepha's still holding Bob's shoulder, and he shakes him again. "You need to get up now, though."

"No lying down on the job," Bert says, and Bob gets fleeting shattered memories of Bert lying in bed, grinning, the sheets tangled around his body.

"Not the time or place." Branden's smiling as he talks, but then he's grabs for Bob's hand, and pulls. "Really, you need to get up, now."

"There's not much time, a few minutes and you'll have the intelligence of one of Bert's socks," Jepha says. "Which is more intelligent than Bert, but you know."

"If I wasn't so busy getting this fucker on his feet I'd kick your ass." Bert takes a moment to scowl at Jepha then leans over so he's looking directly at Bob. He yells, spittle raining down. "Get your fucking lazy ass up now. Now! This is not ending like this."

He slaps Bob, hard, and looks utterly unrepentant. Not that it hurts, the slap is nothing compared to the other pain, but Bob moves, urged on by all four as he forces himself to his knees.

"You're going to have to run like fuck," Quinn says. "Chances are you'll get a laser to the back, but better that than the way you're going."

Which is true, and for a scant clear moment Bob needs his crew so badly, the people he's spent so much time with, who know him inside out. The ones he loves.

Bert stands, arms crossed. "If you fucking make me cry I'll fuck up your shit."

"You need to go," Quinn kneels up and wipes his fingers under Bob's eyes. "First though, you'd better take care of that fucker." He indicates the guard, who has grabbed one of the slaves, using her as a shield.

Bob nods, then stands. He wavers immediately, spewing bile, but he can feel four sets of hands at his back. Pulling on their strength, he lifts his stunner, and aims, hating how the slave’s eyes widen with fear.

 

"I'll hit her," Bob says, and he doesn't know if he can do this. If he can aim knowing he's going to take an innocent life.

"You've no choice; you can't shoot a laser around a curve." Bert looks up at Bob as he steadies his hand, his fingers wrapping securely around Bob's own. "Do it."

Bob pulls the trigger then, his laser going through the slave to the guard. They both collapse and then Bob’s running, bending to scoop up Matt, relieved when suddenly Ray's there too. He helps Gerard to his feet and they're sprinting back to the _Love and Death_ , throwing themselves inside. Bob keeps going until he reaches the conn, hoping Gerard is sealing the door.

He collapses in his seat, chest heaving and hands shaking and he knows they need to take off, but Bob can't remember how. He's frozen, terrified at this lack of knowledge when Bert walks into view. Normally his place is behind Bob, chatting as they fly, today he stands, close enough to touch. As do Quinn, Branden and Jepha when they appear too.

"You can do this," Jepha says. "You were born to do this."

Bert flicks Bob's ear. "You'd better fucking do it, you pansy-ass bastard."

"You'll be fine," Quinn says. "You have to be, you've another crew that needs looking after."

Branden pushes past Quinn so he can see Bob. "And they need you now. We're fine, Bob."

Loss hits once more, made more painful because Bob can remember they shouldn't be here. But they are and he's going to lose them again, and maybe it's best if he just stays here and lets go.

"I should laser you for even thinking that." Quinn's angry, but when he speaks again, he sounds merely resigned. "You're needed here." He squeezes Bob's shoulder, kisses the top of his head. "Thanks, for before. I wouldn't have wanted to be buried without my hands."

"The memorial was a nice touch." Jepha moves in close, hugging Bob around the back of the chair. "And thanks, for what you said at the end."

"And the shared grave, it would have been lonely alone," Branden says.

Bob thinks Bert's going to stay silent, but he clears his throat, says. "Tell them-- Tell them they'd better look after you." He moves to the front of Bob, kisses him hard and quick. "Now, fly you fucker. There's guards and bots just outside."

Bob reaches up and pulls down the headset and prepares to fly.

It's impossible at first. The lines of sound and light make no sense, and when he tries to tune into the beat it hurts, his head pounding. Then he feels the ghost of a touch against his back, and he plunges in, instinct taking over as he flies.

The take off is worse than any he's ever rode. He feels flayed alive, his skin ripped from his body, his insides twisted and bones ground to powder, but he holds on, skims the ribbons that lead away from the planet, and when he breaks orbit he can barely keep himself upright, slumping back in his seat. He lies back, inputs the co-ordinates to get back to Pete's, then starts to take off his headset. He stops, hands hovering close. Knowing when he takes it off they'll be gone.

They are.

~~~~

It's quiet at the conn.

Bob looks out at space, the distant stars and planets and takes comfort in the sight. He notices acutely how he can hear the beat of the universe once more. He still hurts, badly, but it's much better than before. Pulling back his attention, he listens more closely, feels Gerard, Matt and Ray. Together they make a rich melody, one that's almost complete. Except, one sound is much fainter, and worry makes Bob struggle to his feet.

He finds them all clustered around Gerard's bunk, Matt lying down and Gerard kneeling at the head of the bunk, holding a cloth under Matt's nose. It's dark with blood, and there are trickles coming from his ears, the corner of his mouth.

Ray looks at Bob then immediately away, as if afraid to be caught looking. He's got his hands clasped in his lap, his fingers criss-crossed with cuts and he's covered in dust, his hair a dirty matted mess. Hesitantly, his voice rough, Ray says, "Thank you."

Bob shrugs a response, there's nothing he can say that's appropriate. You're welcome, it's nothing, none have any meaning in this moment, when Matt keeps bleeding and shock hangs heavy in the air. Suspecting why, but hoping he's wrong, Bob grabs the medical case and sets it on the floor next to the bunk. Wordlessly, Ray shifts to the bottom, giving room as Bob scans Matt for injuries.

"It hit me with a bacterial, didn't it?" Matt sounds resigned, but Bob can feel his fear, how it's reined in tight, as if Matt's afraid to lose all control.

"Looks like it," Bob says, and peels the back off a pain patch, sticking it to Matt's arm.

Matt sighs when the powerful drugs hit his system. "Figures.”

"What does that mean?" Gerard's moved to the opposite bunk and he leans forward, trying to see the scanner Bob's holding.

"It means I'm fucked," Matt says, unnaturally calm.

"Bob?"

Bob lets the scanner drop. His own grief is rubbed raw and he's struggling to deal, but he knows he's got no choice, has to give explanations that no one wants to hear.

Ray reaches out and briefly touches Bob's arm, then looks at Gerard. "The stunners the guards use have an escape level strength. They fire bacterials, beams infused with micro organisms that burrow into flesh and invade the internal organs. They've been genetically modified to activate growth within a certain time. Once they do they start liquefying bodies from the inside."

Matt wipes his fingers under his nose. "Like I said, fucked."

"No, you said a certain time. That has to mean something." Gerard turns to Bob. "We're in time, right? You can fix this."

"He can't." Matt clenches his hands and looks directly at Gerard. "The time thing. It just means you can get the antidote before a certain time. After that..."

"So we go get the antidote. We got you two out. We can get that."

"Gee. Stop." Matt beckons Gerard close, and Bob slips out of the way, giving them room. "Even if you could get it, it's too late. I know. I've watched people die like this before. At least l'll die in a bed and not on fucking alien soil like those other poor bastards." He stops talking then, taking in a short wet breath. "And Bob can't go back down, he'll die and you need him to fly."

"I was supposed to save you," Gerard says, reaching up, his fingers against Matt's neck.

Matt looks at him, says simply, "You did."

 

~~~

It takes three hours in the end.

They're all sitting close, Ray in Bob's bunk, hiding his winces as Gerard sits behind him, determinedly combing out his hair. It's not going well, but Gerard keeps relentlessly brushing, reclaiming inch by torturous inch.

Bob sits by Matt, keeping him as comfortable as possible as Matt's body slowly dissolves. He sleeps mostly, pink tears slipping down his face as Bob carefully cleans his face and body, soothing as best he can.

"I'm tired," Matt says. It's the first time he's spoken for nearly an hour, and Bob knows it's near the end. Matt's beat is slowing, is barely there, just a throb maintained by the strength of those that surround him. "Gerard, can you sing? Please."

Gerard's hands jerk, his fingers tangling in Ray's hair. "I haven't... Yeah."

Ray reaches back, his hand on Gerard's knee, and Bob helps Matt turn his head so he can see them both.

When Gerard begins to sing it's no song Bob's heard before, but it doesn't matter. Because it's a song about friendship, about love and loss, and Bob feels it like it's his own. Gerard keeps singing, and Matt's beat slows, slows, dies.

~~~~

They eject Matt's body within hours.

After setting course for the nearest small sun, Bob tidies his craft, keeping busy as Gerard and Ray wash Matt's face and hands. They do so slowly, carefully, showing respect in the way they arrange his body and cover him in a clean blanket, tucking in the edges so he's wrapped up tight.

"I'm sorry," Gerard says, head bowed as he pulls the blanket over Matt's face. Ray says nothing. He's deathly pale and when he walks he does so with his hands against any nearby support, his back bowed. Bob's surprised he's still functioning, but Ray keeps going, doing what's needed and asking no questions at all.

When Bob feels his craft slow he steps past Gerard and Ray, checking they've arrived where they need to be. They have and Bob squints against the light of the sun, giving moments of privacy before making his way back.

They're both standing now, still pressed close, united in numb grief and it feels like the universe is mourning with them, the joined melody of Gerard and Ray one of sorrow and Bob's eyes prickle in response.

"We're here?" Gerard asks. He's chewing on his bottom lip, looking everywhere but at Bob or the bunk.

"Yeah." Bob looks at Matt's body, at the ejection hatch and he knows he needs to push this forward, that it's up to him to signal the end. He goes to the bunks, crouches and lifts Matt carefully into his arms. He's tricky to hold because while he's painfully thin, he's also tall, and Bob can feel fluid seep through the blanket as he cradles him against his chest. "Can you open the hatch?"

Gerard blinks, then moves forward, pressing buttons so the hatch opens with a hiss.

It's a tight fit getting Matt's body inside. Bob has to bend Matt's knees and his feet provide resistance as Bob sets the door to close. But it does, and all that's left is for him to hit eject, sending Matt's body into the sun. He looks at Gerard and Ray. "Do you want to do it? Or say some words?"

Ray nods, and walks over with Gerard. Reaching out, he rests his hand on the controls and Gerard does the same, their fingers overlapping.

"You were a fantastic friend, you kept me going this last year," Ray says. More quietly he adds, "I'll miss you." After a second, when it seems as though he is done he speaks up again, his voice faltering. "Keep… Ah, keep play… banging those drums, wherever you go."

Ray dips his head and Gerard slips his arm around his back and they're propping each other up more than offering any actual support.

"Thank you. You saved me," Gerard says simply.

They press the button then, and the hatch opens on the outside, Matt's body ejecting into space.

~~~~

Pete’s sitting in the open door of his vehicle, scuffing the toes of his boots in the dirt, his red pants clashing with the yellow paint. When he sees them exit the _Love and Death_ , he jumps to his feet.

 _"Gerard, I'm sorry." Pete pulls Gerard into a quick hug, nods at Bob and then turns to Ray. "I'm Pete, you must be Ray." Ray flinches slightly when it looks like he's about to be hugged too, but Pete keeps back, his sorrow obvious as he looks at them all. "I can get the doc if you need him; otherwise the beds are ready back at the house."_

 _It's been days and Bob can still feel the effects of the shatter planet. His muscles ache and he's struggling through a headache that doesn't want to leave, but it's nothing sleep and pain patches won't cure, so he says, "I'm okay, but Ray..."_

 _"I'm fine," Ray interrupts. He forces a smile and Bob wonders if Gerard has even mentioned the beat, because the fake smile does nothing to hide Ray's real feelings at all. Which is something Pete seems to feel too, but he says nothing, just glances at Bob before indicating his vehicle._

 _"In that case, climb aboard. We'll go home."_

 _It's a nice thought, going home. But the fact is, the _Love and Death_ is Bob's home, at least it was until it became less of a home and more somewhere where Bob could exist. As opposed to now, when it's beginning to feel like a home once again, even if the inhabitants are still uncertain._

 _Gerard sits between Bob and Ray, Pete sitting opposite once he sets his vehicle toward home. He keeps the walls solid this time, tucking up his legs, his arms wrapped around his knees as he talks, filling the silence._

 _"I went to the _No Grav Ball_ last night. _The Everchanging Failboats_ were playing. Brendon managed to get his bubble stuck on the ceiling, he was trapped there for almost two songs, he kept playing though." Pete seems impressed, grinning at them over his knees. "He's a talented one; you should see him with a stunner. Still, he's not as good as Ross; he can take out a guard at fifty paces."_

 _"They work for you, too?" Gerard asks, looking interested._

 _"Technically they answer to me but they tend to do their own thing and they're good at it, so." Pete shrugs. "Most of them are like that. I'm a figurehead mostly."_

 _Bob thinks about all the names Gerard mentioned as he read Pete's word-streams, every appearance and show. "So, everyone you talk about has double lives?"_

 _"Not all of them. Some are just there, part of the ever-superficial life of a C level celebrity."_

 _"One that goes on raids and frees slaves," Gerard protests._

 _Pete shrugs, his smile edged and uncomfortable. "Masks and shadows, secrets and lies, they see what I want them to."_

 _Gerard, whom Bob is beginning to understand isn't much of one for leaving well enough alone, asks, "And you're okay with that? That they don't know the real you?"_

 _"I don't even know the real me," Pete says. "And if they did know I couldn't do what I do." He reaches for a data pad that's shoved down the back of the seat. "Anyway, it's fun seeing the comments on my word-streams." Quickly typing, he repeats what he's adding to the stream, "Travel in parked cars old friends and new saw a dark moon the future shattered dreams."_

 _"What does that even mean?" Gerard asks, looking confused._

 _Pete grins. "I have no idea."_

 _~~~~~_

 _Bob wakes and immediately looks across the room._

 _Gerard and Ray are in Mikey's old bed, curled close together but when Bob moves Ray opens his eyes, looking fearful before he makes an obvious effort to relax.  
"Sorry," Bob says softly, trying to be quiet as he gets out of bed. "I'm going to find coffee; do you want me to bring you some?"_

 _"I'll go...." Ray starts to push himself up, then lowers himself back down. "It's okay, I'm fine."_

 _"Okay," Bob says, not believing him at all, but now isn't the time, and he pulls on his clothes before leaving the room. Stomach growling, he makes for the kitchen and finds Pete sitting at the table. He looks lost in thought, his arms bare and tattoos on show as he rests his chin on his linked hands._

 _"Morning."_

 _"Afternoon now," Pete says. "There's coffee ready, and if you're hungry just order what you want."_

 _Filling a mug, Bob looks at the food dispenser, which seems to contain anything anyone would ever want to eat. He enters the code for a hosspig sandwich and then goes to sit opposite Pete._

 _"They still sleeping?"_

 _"Gerard is, Ray not so much."_

 _"It'll take time." Pete reaches for Bob's coffee, ignoring the resulting growl. He takes a sip and hands back the mug. "He'll start to talk soon, that'll help."_

 _"Not everyone needs to talk."_

 _"True, but most do. If they have anyone to talk to."_

 _"Which isn't a problem for you, I'd imagine," Bob says._

 _Pete tucks his hands into the pocket of his jumpsuit and shrugs. "True, I have a lot of people who'll listen, but sometimes I don't want their replies."_

 _"As opposed to needing it."_

 _"I always _need_ a reply. Doesn't mean I want to hear it." Pete reaches for the mug again and this time Bob hands it over. Pete takes a drink, looking pensive. "They all said I should have sent Mikey and Frank into a new life."_

"They didn't approve of them staying?"

"Technically I shouldn't have kept them." Pete smiles briefly. "I'm good at ignoring rules when I want something."

"And you wanted them?" Bob isn't expecting a clear answer; he's talked to Pete for all of a few days and already knows some truths tend to be layered within other distracting words. But Bob's got an advantage in the way Pete sounds, the sense of loss that's concealed in his melody.

"Wants aren't easy and tend to come complete with teeth. They wanted to go, so, I mean. If you love someone and all that. Loss and barbed dreams."

"Right," Bob says, looking directly at Pete. "That's a yes then."

"Have you ever been lonely in a crowded room?"

"Hasn't everyone?"

Pete looks at Bob, his head tilted a little to the side. "You sound like Gerard. Gerard sounds like Mikey."

"And that's good?" Bob asks.

Pete's answer is a long time coming. "It reminds me of them and I've spent months deliberately not looking."

"But you're looking now, right?"

Pete says, "I have since the day you first turned up."

~~~~

Bob puts down his data pad, watching as Ray enters the room. He's still walking slowly, slightly hunched forward and he winces often despite the pain patch he has attached to his arm. Bob knows about that kind of ache, the kind that remains despite the best drugs. He shifts over on the couch, giving room so Ray can sit without them having to touch.

"I've been talking to Gerard," Ray says. He sits, turned slightly so that he can look at Bob. This is the first time they've been alone and it's easy to see that Ray's nervous, like he's out of practice with talking to someone new. "He's been telling me about the beat."

"Good," Bob says. "You needed to know."

Ray nods then. "They banned music on our planet, so we listened and played in secret, but I always thought there was something."

"Yeah," Bob says, encouraging Ray to go on.

"I wanted to ask." Ray turns further toward Bob, looking worried. "Now I know all that sound is out there, but I can't hear it and maybe it's too late."

"It's not too late." That's something Bob knows for certain. He can hear Ray's beat easily, in many ways more easily than he can Gerard's. It's an instinctive thing and Bob can't help feeling angry that Ray's right to listen was taken away.

Frustrated, Ray says, "So what? All I do is listen? Because I've been trying and I can't hear anything different."

"It's more _how_ you listen." It's a repetition of what Bob has told Gerard, but it's still a struggle to find the words to explain something so instinctive. "You thought there was something, and that's because there is. The whole universe is filled with beats, currents of sound, and the problem is unraveling them all." He frowns, thinking of a way to clearly explain. "Think about how Gerard sounds, not his actual voice but the sound behind him. The way when he walks into a room you know it's him, even if you can't see."

Ray closes his eyes, and Bob waits until he nods slightly.

"Okay, remember that and listen to the house. Not specific sounds, just listen to it all, see if you can hear Gerard."

It takes a long time, so long that Bob's beginning to think he's done this too soon, that Ray should have had more time to recover. Then Ray's eyes open and he looks up, in the direction that Bob can sense Gerard. "I thought.... it's gone now."

Ray looks disappointed, but Bob hastens to reassure him. "You've never done this before, it's like handing someone a holo probe and expecting them to create a 4D dwelling when they haven't even managed a 3D landscape before. You did fine."

"And what if that's all I can do? Gerard says only certain people have this ability. What if I don't and the rest of you do? Just the deaf idiot who's allowed to stick around due to pity while you all communicate with super sound."

"It doesn't work like that," Bob says. "And I know you have the ability, it’s just a case of practicing, you’ll get it."

“I suppose,” Ray says. “I can practice if it gets me mutant bat ears, too.”

Bob sighs. “You really need to stop listening to Gerard so much. But if it works for you, mutant bat ears it is.”

Ray smiles and prepares to try again.

~~~~

It's only been days; maybe a week in total, but Bob already has a favourite place in Pete's house. He's lounging on one of the couches in the main living room, his socked feet pushed against the cushioned arm. He's been reading, but he puts the data pad to one side when Pete appears, looking tired as he folds himself up in one of the easy chairs.

"I swear, the Failboats are going to send me to an early grave. I told them to wait for backup, but did they listen? No they didn’t, they never do."

"Sucks,” Bob sympathises, because he knows how it feels to be surrounded by people who never do a thing you say.

“Two hours I’ve been talking to Ross, most of that him telling me how his hat was set on fire by a laser beam.” Pete pulls up his legs and rests his chin on his knees. “When I asked what he was doing to get shot at he said he was protecting Jon, and _of course_ he was.” Pete looks directly at Bob. “Why am I surrounded by people with suicidal hero complexes?”

“You’re just that lucky, I guess,” Bob says. “Are they okay?”

“They’re fine. Holed up on the _Northern Downpour_ and celebrating freeing more slaves.” Despite his complaints, Pete sounds proud and he’s smiles happily at Bob then says, "I was thinking, back of the house or front. There's more light in the back, but the front's next to Mikey and Frank's room. Gerard will probably want to be close to them."

"The hell?" Bob says, not understanding this turn about in the conversation at all.

"Your room," Pete says, as if it's obvious Bob should know what he's talking about. "I know you'll be off looking for Mikey, but you'll need a base and I've plenty of room."

"But, I've already got a room, I've the whole of the _Love and Death_."

"I know, I know, the whole bond between pilot and craft, I get it. But you won't be flying all the time, and I thought." Pete looks away and for a moment all his insecurities are on display. "Stupid idea, it's okay."

"No," Bob hastens to say, but after that he's got no idea how to go on, because he's never even thought about staying here, for any amount of time. He doesn't even know Pete, not really. Thankfully he's saved by Patrick, who looks worried as he comes into the room.

"A slave punishment craft was destroyed last night." Patrick sits on the arm of Pete's chair, reading from a data pad. Pete uncurls and reaches up, wrapping his fingers around Patrick's wrist and turning his hand so he can see. "Most of the slaves were freed first."

“Ryan told me,” Pete says, but he shakes his head as he reads, then looks up at Patrick. "That's not one of our groups."

"No," Patrick says. He shuts down the pad and taps the edge against his thigh. He seems uncomfortable, pushing his glasses up his nose as he looks from Bob to Pete. "We think it's Mikey and Frank."

"Why would you think that?" Pete demands.

"We've been hearing rumours for a while. Slave ships burned, a shipment of slaves disrupted in sector two, things that suggest a small-time operation. It didn't take long to find out who was doing it and frankly, I'm surprised they've lasted this long without being caught."

"Are you telling me you've known where they've been all this time?" Pete sounds icy calm, but the atmosphere is brittle, the usually harmonious melody between them all jagged sound and conflict.

"Not all the time, and even if I had I wouldn't have told you." Patrick jumps to his feet, moving to stand in front of Pete. "You didn't talk to me for days when they left. You didn't mention them; you didn't try to find them, _nothing_. And you could have, you could have listened and followed them but you didn't."

Pete stands too, glaring at Patrick. "Because they didn't want me to. They left."

"Exactly, they left. And I was here to pick up the pieces, and I did. Like I always do. So don't even get on me about not telling you where they were."

Pete relaxes a little then, dropping his hands as he admits, "I was a bit of a mess."

"A _bit_. Twelve thousand word-stream comments in two weeks, half worried you were about to launch yourself out of an airlock."

 _"And the other half saying to hurry up and do it already, I bet."_

 _Patrick doesn't answer, just stands still as Pete moves in close, resting his head against Patrick's shoulder. Abruptly the tension in the room decreases and Bob sits back in his chair, thankful that Pete and Patrick aren't going to rip each other apart. Still, he can't help holding onto his own anger, that Patrick had known where Mikey and Frank were and hadn't said a word._

 _As if he knows what Bob's thinking, Patrick turns to Bob, smiling a little at his surprised look. "You feel angry and I can guess why, but we didn't know where they were exactly. Not then. We haven't a connection to them, not like Pete, and we weren't about to ask him. He comes first, you have to get that."_

 _Bob does, and his anger fades slightly. "So why tell him now?"_

 _Patrick doesn't look at Bob when he replies, just wraps his arm around Pete. "Because he's my best friend. Because I'd take a bullet for him. Because one way or another this needs to end."_

 _Which is answer enough for Bob. "So you know the area they're in."_

 _"Roughly. They’ve been moving a lot so you’ll have to track them down. We’re pulling together information for you now."_

 _Bob looks at Pete. "Aren't you coming?"_

 _"I'm the support act, not the main show." Pete takes the data pad out of Patrick's hand and pulls up a page. "You go and find Gerard and Ray; I've some things I need to do."_

 _He leaves then and Patrick follows, stopping only to say, "I'd get ready as fast as you can, they've been moving on quickly."_

 _Bob goes._

 _He finds Gerard and Ray easily, he always can now. It's like they're part of him, the connection getting stronger by the day._

 _"Bob, hey." Gerard waves a greeting. He's sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of pastries and a mug of coffee in his hand._

 _Ray reaches for the plate and pulls it to his side of the table. "You'd better hurry if you want one of these, Gerard's eating them all."_

 _"Hey. Weeks on the _Love and Death_ , _months_ at the club eating those fucking protein cubes. It's nice to eat something that actually tastes good." Gerard looks at Bob then, mouth curled into a smile. "Not that your soup isn't delicious."_

"It's better than the stuff I've been eating. They used to give us these bags full of goop," Ray says, grimacing. "It moved in your mouth."

"One night I'd drank through a few bottles and thought I saw a sausage on the floor. When I bit into it I found out it was a finger."

About to take a pastry, Bob pulls his hand away. "That's gross."

"I know, and like, they say human flesh tastes like fowl, but it doesn't, not really. Though that could have been the maggots." Gerard looks at Bob. "What do you think, would the maggots distort the taste?"

"I think you need to shut up." Bob pulls out a seat and sits next to Ray. "Seriously, how did you ever become his friend?"

"We met I was too young to know any better," Ray says, and it's good to listen to this easy teasing, after days when they've both been almost wholly silent, trying to deal.

"As I remember, it was you who demanded I come out and play." Gerard takes a drink of coffee and then puts down his mug, seemingly unable to tell a story without accompanying hand gestures. "They needed another player for a game of kick."

"What I didn't know was Gerard couldn't kick a flutter ball if his life depended on it."

"I kicked it once," Gerard protested, and it's easy to tell he's waiting for a familiar response, his smile barely hidden.

"Into the wrong goal; we lost 6-5."

Ray grins. "Which is when Mikey came out and told us we all sucked. So Matt picked him up and held him upside down."

"So I kicked him and told him no one does that to my brother."

"No," Ray says. "What you said was. No one fucking does that to my fucking baby brother so put him the fuck down before I kick your fucking pansy ass."

"Right. Right." Gerard's grinning right back at Ray now. "That's when Helena came out and told me to watch my language and for Matt to let Mikey go. He did and she pretended not to notice when Mikey kicked Matt's shin, then she gave us all cookies and soda."

"She was the best."

"Yeah," Gerard agrees. He looks at Bob then, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed. "You sound different."

Bob reaches over the table and steals Gerard's mug. He takes a drink of coffee, ignoring the resulting protests. He knows as soon as he tells his news these easy moments will be over, so takes the time to eat a pastry and finish off Gerard's drink before he says, "Patrick thinks he knows where Mikey and Frank are."

"What!?" Gerard's chair scrapes across the floor as he stands. Hands against the table he stares at Bob. "You knew that and sat here drinking coffee and eating? Letting us talk about the past?"

"There's nothing we can do yet. Pete's off getting some stuff, Patrick too. All we can do is wait."

"No, what I can do is go and see where they are. How long it'll take to get there. How did they find him? When? Are they sure it's actually them?"

"Gerard, stop." Bob wraps his fingers around Gerard's wrist and holds on. "Pete just found out." He doesn't say how Patrick's had suspicions for a while, just hopes that Gerard will accept this answer. "Apparently they've been blowing up slave ships."

"Blowing shit up, of course." Gerard wavers slightly and Bob tightens his hold. "Of course they're blowing shit up. I mean, it's them." He leans into Bob. "It is them, right?"

"It might be." Bob's making no promises, but it seems to be enough for Gerard. He stands up straight and Bob can feel his emotions change, his beat becoming louder. He throws his shoulders back as he stalks toward the door. Almost there, he turns, looking fierce. "This has to end. There's people in this galaxy that are hurt and afraid and alone. They're out there screaming for help and we need to say, 'stop.' We need to go out there and make ourselves heard saying, 'no more slaves, no more lies. We know what's going on. We know and we won't hide. Frank and Mikey have the right idea. We can't sit back and pretend, not any longer. When I find my brother, when I find Frank, we're going to fucking _scream_ , fuck you! Fuck you to those that oppress, that enslave, that _use_ the lives of others. We will find you and we will _end_ you, in Matt's name, in the name of those slaves that were put in front of the guards. Your time is _fucking_ over. It's us now, our time."

Which is a speech far too full-on for this quiet room, but it's still impressive, and Bob loves seeing this side of Gerard, loves seeing his determination and his anger, the set of his body screaming a surety that this time, this time they'll succeed.

~~~~

Red light colours Patrick’s face as he points at the map. “The last confirmed sighting was in Li City, before that they were on Holatrak. Apparently they’re really good at hitching rides on craft.”

“They’re good at getting what they want,” Gerard says.

“Yeah.” Pete’s leaning against the wall, his ankles crossed and he smiles slightly. “Between that look Mikey gives and Frank’s grin they could persuade anyone to do anything.”

“Not _everyone_ ,” Patrick says, pointedly. “The problem is, we don’t know where they’ve gone now.”

“Did you contact Gabriel?” Pete asks.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “No, Pete. I didn’t think to contact him, what with him being based in Li City and all.”

“So, what, you’ve lost them again?” Gerard says, the accusation obvious.

“It’s more they’ve lost themselves,” Patrick bites back. “And you’ll be able to track them down easily enough; it’ll just take more time without a solid starting point.”

Gerard heads for the door. “So what are we waiting here for?”

“Gerard, wait.” Ray moves to stand close to the map, looking at the glowing points that show where Mikey and Frank have been seen. “It looks like they’ve been staying within a small area.”

“As far as we know,” Patrick agrees.

“Right.” Ray turns to look at Bob. “I’m no expert and honestly? All that riding waves of sound stuff about how the _Love and Death_ can achieve long distance sub space travel? I didn’t understand a word. But I do know she can go a hell of a long distance in a very short amount of time. So, considering they could go anywhere, doesn’t that suggest they’re sticking around for a reason?”

“That or they couldn’t get a ride,” Bob says.

Patrick shakes his head. “I doubt it. That’s a busy port and Pete’s right. They tend to get what they want.”

“Exactly,” Ray says. “There has to be something that’s keeping them there.”

“The Mosh!” Pete stands suddenly, gesturing excitedly. “It’s one of the biggest traveling music festivals

It makes sense to Bob. For someone brought up on planet where music is illegal, a festival has to be a huge draw. Plus, they have to start _somewhere_. “Do you know where the festival is now?”

“Yeah.” Patrick says. “The last stop is Gnrrekg, it ends today.”

Gerard heads for the door again, says, “Let’s go.”

~~~~

They load the _Love and Death_ with more supplies. There's medication and food, and Andy pushes yet more fake steaks into Bob's hands, complete with a bottle of home-made sauce that he says Frank loves. Bob packs it all efficiently away, placing packets and boxes in cupboards and the pile of soft blankets on his bunk. All the while he itches to take off. Now that he knows a vague direction, he can concentrate and feel the beat of Frank and Mikey. It's distant, almost lost in a tangle of other sound, but he knows it's there. It pulls at him, a constant tug, and that feeling is only amplified by having Gerard and Ray so close.

"I packed some of their clothes; they didn't take much." Pete's holding a bag against his chest. He opens it, rifling through the contents, shirts and pants and a data pad pushed protectively in the middle. He sees Bob looking and taps the edge before covering it with a shirt. "It's what Frank was reading to Mikey, they didn't finish and I thought they might want to know the end." Abruptly he covers the pad and closes the bag. "Tell them. Tell them they're always welcome back."

Hands out, Bob takes the bag Pete thrusts his way. "I'll tell them, promise."

Pete nods and leaves.

Bob's left with directions to the planet where Mikey and Frank were last seen, a craft stuffed full of supplies and two men who're clearly not at their best. Ray's still tense and has a tendency to obey every command, even if it's not directed his way. Gerard, meanwhile, is running on nervous exhaustion, unable to sit still for even a moment.

Then there's Bob himself, he's mourning for his old crew while accepting one that's new. It still feels wrong at times, like he's betraying their memory, but he can't deny that this feels right. As he passes Ray, who's looking around the galley, interested in every device that Gerard excitedly points out, or trips over a pair of boots that have been left in the middle of the floor, Bob _knows_ this is right. That the _Love and Death_ is coming alive once more.

 _First though, she needs two more of her crew, and Bob seals the door and heads for the conn. "I'll be taking off in five. You'd better sit down."_

 _Gerard nods and leads Ray to the bunks. Confident that Gerard will tell him what to expect, Bob goes up front and sinks down in his chair. He smiles slightly as he does so, content that he can finally take off. It's been a long time full of essential preparation, but now all he has to do is go. Taking hold of the headset he pulls it down, and relaxes into the hold of his craft. Hands outstretched he manipulates the lines that appear in his vision, glancing outside at the ribbons of sound that surround them. Moving one hand, he prepares to take off._

 _"Port Vanatrous, the _Love and Death_ is ready to depart."_

 _"Permission is granted _Love and Death_. Prepare to depart in, three, two, one, go."_

 _The last thing Bob hears is Andy's voice as he says _Good luck_. Following instinctive actions Bob allows his craft to take off. Skimming the line of light, his body and mind thrown outwards until he hears everything, is everything. His bones are dust, his hands blurs of light. He's rocketing through space, brushing stars and plunging through suns, and then they're in orbit and he's pulled painfully back, infinity lost to a solid body and mind, aching as he gasps and sets his craft on the right path._

 _Taking off the headset he goes back to the bunks, worried about Ray. He finds him lying on his back, laughing as Gerard sits at his side, smile wide as he says, "See, didn't I tell you it's awesome?"_

 _"You did," Ray says, and he pushes himself up so he can see Bob. "That felt amazing."_

 _"It's even better up front," Bob says. "You can sit up there one day."_

 _Ray seems delighted with that idea, and Bob's glad he offered, especially when Gerard pushes up against his side, wrapping his arm around Bob's thigh._

 _"I was thinking, Ray can have my bunk, and I'll take the one above."_

 _Bob flinches, and Gerard looks up at him, his smile fading. "Sorry, bad idea."_

 _"No, it's not." Bob hastens to reassure. "It's just; it hasn't been used for a while. But you're right. It'll have to be."_

 _Gerard lets go and Bob pulls at the bunk, wrestling it down. This one's bare, just a thin mattress and Bob has hazy memories of a night wrapped in a blanket, soaking up his alcohol assisted tears. He thinks he jettisoned the blanket one day. It has probably burned up in a sun somewhere and Bob's thankful for the blankets Pete sent as he picks one up off the pile, flapping his hand so it unfolds._

 _"I'll help." Gerard stands and grabs the end of the blanket. He drapes it on the bunk and tucks it in messily, rolling his eyes when Bob redoes the corners._

 _"You know they'll just get kicked off again."_

 _"Doesn't mean they don't have to be right," Bob says, and smoothes his hand across the top of the blanket. He considers making up more bunks, but it seems presumptuous somehow. Instead he puts the spare blankets in a cupboard, along with the bag Pete left behind._

 _~~~~_

 _Using a combination of leads provided by Patrick, questions and pure blind luck, they manage to track Mikey and Frank as far as the port at Gnrrekg city. The problem is, once there, they’re stuck, because now the festival is over, Mikey and Frank could have gone anywhere._

 _If Bob listens he can hear them faintly, pulling him away from this planet, but it’s not enough, and he’s ready to kick the nearest stationary object, frustrated at always being that one step behind._

 _“I guess we keep asking, then,” Ray says, sounding determined. He’s clutching a data pad that displays a picture of Mikey and Frank, and he looks at it before heading for two men who are sitting, chatting at an outdoor eating area._

 _Bob looks in the opposite direction, hitches his bag further up his shoulder and pulls his own data pad out of his pocket. “I’ll take the Gakvrg.”_

 _“The hell?” Gerard looks at Bob strangely. “There’s nothing over there.”_

 _Bob looks again, then points. “It’s right there.”_

 _“That thing that looks like a pile of snot?”_

 _“They usually prefer gelatinous pile, but yeah.”_

 _“Cool.” Gerard’s grinning as he watches the Gakvrg ripple as it shifts in the sun. “Can I ask? Or will it not understand me?”_

 _“It depends. Are you going to ask like a normal person or go into a ten minute rant about the unjust nature of slavery and the evil corrupt bastards who maintain the status quo by buying them, again?”_

 _“He thought it was okay to own slaves,” Gerard says, and his beat is quickening, a wave of angry sound. “What was I supposed to do? Let him go without telling him what a disgusting fucking moron he was?”_

 _“I wouldn’t expect you to do anything less.” Bob grins. “I especially liked you telling him you wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire.”_

 _“Well I wouldn’t. Not one drop. I wouldn’t even shake off over him.”_

 _“Oh god. You’re not talking kinks again are you? Because seriously?”_

 _Bob turns to see Ray, who’s staring directly at Gerard._

 _“I did it once. _Once_. And I told you it wasn’t sexual. I was desperate and your shoes were handy.”_

 _“I was _wearing_ them.” Ray shakes his head and then gives up on the conversation by indicating the eating area. “I came over to tell you they’ve seen Mikey and Frank.”_

 _Without another word, Gerard turns and almost runs to the table where the men are sitting. They’re drinking something that bubbles in a giant container in the middle of the table, sucking the blue liquid through two straws._

 _“Ray says you’ve seen them.” Gerard’s holding out his date pad, and one of the men nods._

 _“They were here at the beginning of the week. They were looking for a certain craft but it wasn’t due in then, so we shared a meal. Once Ke decided they were clean, anyway.” Slumping back in his chair, the man looks over the top of his sunglasses. “He has a _thing_.”_

“And for good reason.” Putting his straw on the table, the man with long dark hair looks up at Gerard. “I keep a clean craft and they both looked out of it. Once I knew they weren’t they stuck around and ate with Aje and me.”

“For a while anyway,” Aje says. “Long enough for us to know they couldn’t pay.”

Gerard frowns, looking fierce. “So what did you do? Make them pay some other way?”

“No, I paid for them.” Ke looks at Gerard, considering. “I thought they needed something that came with no strings attached.”

“They do,” Gerard says. “And, I’m sorry. For thinking that. It’s just…”

“We’ve been traveling for most of our lives, we know,” Aje says, cutting Gerard off. “We offered them space on our craft but they were determined to wait for _The Gull_. I don’t know where they went after that, sorry.”

“There’s no need.” Bob steps close, his hand against Gerard’s side. “At least we know where they were going.”

“If you wait a few hours Oul will be on duty. He was guard the day we saw them. He may know something.” Ke takes a drink, making bubbles pop in the air and then puts down the straw once more. “When you find them, tell them it’s okay to stop moving sometimes.”

“I will,” Gerard promises.

They walk away then, and yet again prepare to wait.

~~~~

Gerard looks like he wants to jump out of his own skin. He's twitching as they wait, hands in his hair, scratching at his face and eventually Bob grabs for his hand, holding it in his own. "You need to settle down."

Wild-eyed, Gerard nods, and keeps watching the gate of the port. Each time it swishes open he jumps and Bob's wishing he’d sent him back to the _Love and Death_. Not that Gerard would have gone. They're too close now.

"Why didn't they stay here? We're so close; they should have known we were coming."

They're questions Gerard keeps asking, but there are no answers. Only back luck that means yet again they're just that step behind.

"To be fair, they have no way of knowing we're even alive." Ray's sitting on a metal bench, a bag containing supplies propped against his leg.

"They should know. _Mikey_ should know I'm alive."

"You didn't see what we did at the club, he's got no idea you survived."

It's the first time Ray's mentioned the raid at the club, at least when Bob can hear. It feels like a story for another place, not this sunny park where they're sheltering under the shade of a giant tree, spiky pink blossoms fluttering to the ground with each gentle brush of breeze.

"He really thinks I'm dead," Gerard says, more to himself than anyone else.

"We all did. You were there, it was chaos, and then you disappeared off the stage."

Gerard drops down onto the bench next to Ray, like he's unable to stand. "The audience pulled me off, I tried to get back."

"I know and I'm glad you didn't, at least one of us stayed free, but Mikey...." Ray hesitates as if he's unsure if he should go on. "Mikey tried to get back to you but they wouldn't let him. Let any of us."

"What else?" Gerard asks. "There has to be more."

"I don’t know what you want me to say?" Ray says. "That they forced us away and used their stunners and fists when anyone tried to resist. That we were loaded into transporter craft and taken away and I spent over a year mining and transporting that fucking dust, concentrating on getting through each day. Is that what you wanted to know?"

Gerard places his hand against his neck. "I should have tried harder to get to you."

“I survived, Gerard. We both did.” Ray takes hold of Gerard’s arm, and pulls his hand down. “It’s pointless looking back.”

Which is something Bob agrees with, but all he says is. "I think that's Oul."

He points across the road where a guard is slithering along the sidewalk, leaving a gleaming trail behind. He's got a hat jammed on his head and has a data pad tucked under one his arms. Immediately Gerard runs, stopping the guard with a hand to his chest. "We need to ask you a question."

The guard pushes himself upright and looks suspicious, taking a step back as he sees Bob and Ray walk close. "What kind of question?"

"We're looking for these people. We tracked them here and then found they'd moved on, getting passage on a craft." Turning to Ray, Gerard holds out his hand and Ray rummages in the bag, pulling out a data pad, passing it over. Scrolling through the pages, Gerard shows a picture, Mikey and Frank in Pete's house, both of them unsmiling.

"No, sorry. Never seen them before."

Oul makes to move, and Bob steps forward, taking charge of the conversation. "Look again; we know they were here when you were on shift." He looms over Oul and runs his hand over the stunner on his hip, satisfied when Oul gulps, the whole of his throat rippling.

"Let me see."

Gerard holds up the data pad again and the guard makes a show of looking intently. "Ah, I may have seen them after all. They were with the captain of _The Gull_ , I thought they were the usual ports snips, spreading their legs for a ride. You know the kind, no use but for fucking."

Hearing the surge in beat, Bob steps to the side so he's blocking Gerard from the guard. "This craft, _The Gull_ , where was it going?"

"The Maiox system I think. Captain Loupe goes there to trade. Not that the port snips will get there."

"And why's that?"

Oul laughs, obviously missing the anger barely hidden in Bob's tone. "They'll be sold onto the first slave trader barge in the area. That's if they're not already. Between you and me, that's where they belong; the little one was a twitchy fucker and the other-- Well, a looker if you like that kind of thing, but a few neutrons short of a system, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, I do," Bob says, and he steps aside.

"Normally I'm against violence, but for you." Gerard pulls back his arm, hand fisted as he punches the guard full force in the face, blood splattering as he falls to the ground. "They're worth a thousand of you, you gutless pathetic fuck."

They run off then, fleeing the scene as Oul struggles upright and starts yelling for help.

~~~~

It takes them nearly two days to catch up with _The Gull_.

The night period before, Bob's sitting in his bunk. It's quiet but he's unable to sleep when each time he closes his eyes he imagines failing once more. Instead he's sitting up, his blanket pulled up over his lap as he concentrates on the reassuring thread of Mikey and Frank's beat. They're so close now, their sound merging with Gerard and Ray's, and even Bob's own. When he hears a more immediate sound he's not surprised to see that Gerard's awake, and is sliding out of his own bunk and crawling into Bob's.

"Hi." Gerard wiggles under the blanket, and his bare feet are cold against Bob's leg. He leans back, eyes closed and the nervous tension is thick as he twists a strand of his hair around his finger, one way and then in reverse. Finally, Gerard says, "What if we've missed them again?"

It's a worry Bob shares, and he can't reassure without lying, because while he knows Mikey and Frank are close, he doesn't know where they are exactly. They could be on _The Gull_ , they could have moved on already, and he knows Gerard knows that, too. In addition, this close Bob can't help wondering about what happens after. He's finally creating a new crew, but there's no guarantee that even if he does find the last two, that anyone will want to stay. For all he knows, Bob could be left alone once again.

"If they've gone I'll keep following."

"I know you will," Gerard says. His eyes are shining in the dim light and he's biting at the corner of his lip. "I'm scared."

It's not a surprising admission, and after a moment of hesitation Bob lifts his arm, indicating that Gerard should move in closer. He does and Bob rests his arm around Gerard's shoulders. When they're settled comfortably, he says, "Why?"

"That they won't be there. That they are and I won't know what to say. Frank's one of my best friends, Mikey's my brother and I'm worried about how to talk to them. It's fucking pathetic."

"I'd say realistic. You haven't seen them for over a year."

"Exactly." Gerard rests his head against Bob's shoulder. "If I'd been with them..."

"Haven't we had this conversation?"

"A few times," Gerard admits. "But I can't help feeling guilty. I made a promise I'd always look after Mikey; it's what big brothers do."

"You have nothing to be guilty about," Bob says. "You never gave up. You risked traveling with a complete stranger just for the chance to find your band. I think you're keeping that promise and then some."

Gerard turns his head so his nose is against Bob's neck. "It wasn't a risk traveling with you."

"I could have been a murderer who wanted to eat you and use your skin as a coat."

"Right, you walked so far just to eat scrawny old me," Gerard says, and Bob can feel his smile. "Face it, you're a pussycat with a rescue complex."

There's nothing Bob can say to disagree.

"Just for the record, I don't think you're scary either." Bob looks up and sees first Ray's hair, then his face as he looks down from the above bunk. "But if you two aren't going to shut up, how about we end this night period already?"

It's a sensible suggestion. Bob's not sleepy at all and Gerard's wide awake. Regretfully pulling away, Bob climbs over Gerard and slides off the edge of his bunk, avoiding Ray's trailing hair. "I'll go and check how close we are, if one of you can sort out breakfast."

Bob's under no illusions that anyone will eat, but he needs coffee and lots of it. It's going to be a long day and as he pulls on his socks and boots he's already running through the things they need to do: approaching _The Gull_ and getting on board being the most vital. That means organising things to trade or some other kind of ruse, because the facts are, they'll never get on by force, the other craft is just too big.

A quick check up front and Bob's back, sitting at the pull-down table. Before it was left attached to the galley wall, hidden away with the memories that were focused on talk-filled meals and endless holo card games. Now it's usually left down and Bob sits on one of the magnetic chairs, drinking coffee as Ray scrubs at the counter and Gerard picks at a pastry, the crumbs scattering on the floor.

He takes a bite then pushes the pastry away. "Have you decided what to offer in trade?"

Bob has. He's got food and medical supplies, nearly a full tank of water. The problem is, those things aren't enough, not for a craft like _The Gull_. To get an audience Bob needs more, and he thinks of the belongings packed away in the storage hold. The instruments especially are valuable, the guitars and a small set of drums, even a tambourine, frayed ribbons tied to the sides. Yet more memories -- nights crammed together, listening to Bert sing, the music filling the hold -- and Bob knows if he has to, he can finally let them go.

"Yeah." Bob drains his coffee and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "There's some stuff in the hold."

"Right," Gerard says. He grinds a crumb under his finger and looks at Bob through his hair. "After, I'll pay you back."

"No you won't," Bob says. When it looks like Gerard's going to protest, Bob stands. "I'm going to see if we're within range."

No one follows, and Bob slips into his chair at the conn. He takes a moment to look around, at the distant stars that shimmer brightly and the empty darkness of space. It should be cold, stark, but to Bob it's his home, welcoming him as he slips on the headset, revealing the lines that are his craft and beyond. Reaching out he skims over the beats of Frank and Mikey then follows another, feeling it out, listening until he's sure it's _The Gull_. Positive, Bob concentrates until he can sense the beat that has to be Captain Loupe.

Bob flexes his right fingers, bringing up a screen. He uses his left hand to signal for communication, repeating the command until finally someone replies in swirling, brightly lit tendrils of sound.

"You want something, _craft_?"

Concentrating on calm, Bob replies. "I'm Captain Bryar and I want to trade."

"A craft so small has nothing of interest to us."

Knowing the connection is about to be cut, Bob says, "I have medical supplies, food, instruments from a past crew."

The offer is out there and Bob has nothing else to give. He waits, hating that he has to play this game.

"Connect to my craft and we'll talk."

The communication ends and Bob wipes his palms on his thighs, fighting anger and impending loss as he steers toward _The Gull_.

They meet in less than an hour. _The Gull_ dwarfs Bob's craft and he feels ill-prepared as he docks, the two crafts linking together by a large tube that extends from _The Gull_ 's side. They attach with a soft bump and Bob can't help his nerves as he takes off his headset. They're so close now and Bob takes a moment, breathing in an attempt to calm himself before he goes back to Ray and Gerard. They're waiting at the bunks, sitting side by side and when they see Bob, they both stand.

"I assume we're here." Gerard's still now, focus pulled in.

"We're docked," Bob says, and he steps past, ready to open the door. Before he does he looks back, because they've discussed this, both Gerard and Ray should know what to do, what to say. But Bob can't help picturing everything that could go wrong, because going aboard the other craft is insane. He wants to tell them to stay.

"Don't," Gerard says. He's standing tall, chin up and shoulders back, and when he looks at Bob he's deadly calm. "I'm coming, no matter what you say."

Bob nods, looking at Ray who stares back in return and Bob knows there's no way he's doing this alone, the knowledge makes him feel good as he starts the sequence to open the door. It slides to the side, and ahead is the airlock to _The Gull_ ; a stark white space before a closed door.

"Let's do this."

Gerard steps through first, then Bob and Ray. They have to stand close as the door to the _Love and Death_ slides closed, and air circulates, cool and artificial-tasting. Finally, the other door opens, and they're faced with a slight humanoid man, his ginger hair slicked back. He greets them with a sneer. "I’m Turl, and I’m going to take you to the captain. First though, I need you to hand over any weapons."

Bob knows this is an order and not a request, and despite his misgivings, if he wants to see the captain he’s got no choice but to agree. Taking his stunner, he hands it over. “The others are unarmed.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Bob stands still, biting back his anger when Turl lingers over patting down first Gerard then Ray. When it’s his turn, Bob holds out his hands, growling under his breath when Turl draws out each touch.

“I can guarantee there’s nothing hidden there,” Bob says, and Turl steps back, taking his hand away from Bob’s inner thigh.

“Captain Loupe requires I’m thorough.”

“I’m sure he does,” Bob says, and he steps onto _The Gull_ , Gerard and Ray just behind.

The door slides shut behind them and Bob looks around, taking in the curving walls and dim lights, a craft that just feels wrong. The beats contained within it are varied, both weak and strong, and the main melody is harsh, harmonious still, but in a way that makes Bob's skin crawl. Positioning himself so he's between Turl and the others, Bob listens as he walks. It takes seconds to hear Mikey and Frank. When he does he sees Gerard stiffen and falter slightly before Ray pushes him on, and Bob knows he's felt them too. Bob glances back and looks at Gerard, hoping he understands this isn't the time.

They walk through endless grey corridors, their footsteps dull against the floor, the sound blending with others within this craft. Everywhere there are echoes of past pain and suffering, and Bob's anger is growing all the while. It takes all his experience to keep it tamped down, to appear uncaring as they're led to the main conn.

"The Captain will be here in a moment," Turl says, he steps back, his hip cocked against a console and examines Bob’s stunner as they wait.

Taking the time offered to regroup; Bob steps closer to Ray and Gerard.

"There's something wrong," Gerard says, hissing the words. He still looks calm, but the cracks are appearing, and Bob can't blame him. There's something seriously off about this craft.

"As long as we can hear them they're fine," Bob says, trying to convince himself as well as the others. "We do as we planned, offer the trade and take it from there."

Gerard looks unconvinced, but still nods an agreement, then looks over to the side of the room when a door slides open and someone who has to be Captain Loupe appears.

He's short and dressed in a flowing white robe that skims the ground as he walks. He smiles a welcome as he sits in the command chair and rests his hands on his round stomach. "Captain Bryar I assume."

"Captain Loupe," Bob says. He inclines his head in a greeting. "I come offering you trade."

"Indeed." Captain Loupe stares at Bob, at Gerard and Ray, sizing them up. He frowns; shaking his head sadly. "I feel our trade is too rich for the likes of you."

Bob takes a step forward. "I have food, water, medical supplies."

"And I have no need for such things."

"I have instruments."

There's a flash of interest but it's quickly concealed. About to press the advantage Bob falls silent when Gerard steps forward.

"These instruments originate from the planet Steriska, where music has been banned since the gig riots of times past. They've survived history itself and have taken on the memories of those that held them. You'll see the blood that has seeped into each one. When you strum the strings, the pain of thousands will be revealed. When you bang the drums the rhythm will echo with those that died. These instruments are unique, no other in all the sectors are such a prize." Gerard speaks slowly, and with a deliberate lingering over the more sordid details in the offering.

Bob nods an agreement, and tries not to think of how they gained the instruments in trade, handing over a case of Teaklin Firewater in exchange.

"And you think such things will be of interest to me? Items gained from pain and suffering?"

"I sense you're a man who appreciates history, someone who cares about people," Gerard says, and he approaches Captain Loupe, earnestness displayed for all to see. "A man who understands the important of the past and how it ties to our future. Your reputation as a great warrior proceeds you, but I feel you have another side. The kind that would feel the past lives of those instruments and understand their needs."

It's one of the most ridiculous things Bob has ever heard, but Captain Loupe seems pleased.

"I do consider myself a cultured man and one at one with the universe's… emotions." He licks his lips and then draws the sleeve of his robe over his perspiration-damp forehead. "I provisionally accept your trade. Go bring the instruments to me; I look forward to touching the blood stains with my own hands."

"Once we see what you'll trade in return," Bob says immediately, taking back control of the conversation.

"Of course," Captain Loupe says, but despite the easy agreement, his anger bubbles close to the surface. "I'll take you to the hold myself."

It's not an ideal situation. They're herded from the room with Captain Loupe behind, Turl taking the lead. There's no talking at first, then Ray glances at Bob and lags behind, until he's walking close to Captain Loupe.

"So, do you like piloting a craft?" It's the most inoffensive of small-talk, and Ray apparently doesn't care that he gets no reply, just keeps talking despite being ignored. "I've never tried it myself. I'm more a kitchen man; I make a mean self-heating soup. Have you ever tried them? You should, you’re obviously a man who likes his food."

As a distraction it's perfect, especially as Ray's small-talk feels genuine, like he's enjoying this one-sided conversation with a man who's looking at him like he's scum.

Taking the opportunity, Bob walks close to Gerard, their hands brushing together as he leans in and says softly, "The hold, watch and wait." It's all he dares say as he reminds Gerard not to try something too soon. Because the beats of Mikey and Frank are strong here, so distinct that it's easy to pick out the nuances of sound, the fear and helplessness and Bob's thankful that Gerard's saved from that, can still only hear the most basic of sounds.

They seem to take a looping route to the hold, walking along corridors and then back once more and Bob knows it's a deliberate ploy. But he focuses in on the _Love and Death_ and keeps walking, until finally they stop next to a door, Turl opening it with a swipe of his hand.

The area inside is bigger than the whole of Bob's craft, stuffed full of crates and boxes, all stacked up in long lines. It's an impressive sight, but all Bob can concentrate on is the beats of Mikey and Frank, closer than they've ever been. Breath misting, they walk inside and Captain Loupe indicates the crates with a swipe of his hand.

"Jaseder pelts. Bishyl meat. Data pads containing all the famous tales of history. I offer one crate for trade."

Bob looks at the crates and back to Captain Loupe. Turl has jumped onto a box and appears more interested at picking at his nails, but under the false smile the Captain's gaze is sharp, impatient. Bob decides to take a chance.

"I was hoping for something fresher, something along the lines of live trade."

"Milos has been raising Hamyaks," the Captain says, and he crosses his arms across his chest and leans against a crate. "He'll be heart-broken to lose them; therefore for those my price is higher."

"It's a tempting offer, but not what I'm looking for." Glancing at Gerard, Bob sends him a silent sorry then takes a mirroring stance to Captain Loupe. "Rumours say you deal with fresher meat."

Captain Loupe doesn't reply at first, just looks directly at Bob. "That depends if you can afford that trade."

"I can. The instruments plus more. A man has needs."

"They're not enough for you?" The Captain laughs and leers at Gerard. "I'd take the dark one if you don't want him, though he is a little old for my taste."

"Oh I want him." Bob matches the leer, hating how still Gerard gets, his cheeks flushed red. "But he's part of my crew and as such needs to be functional, I need something for, how can I say it? Rougher games."

Again, Captain Loupe remains silent, and Bob's beginning to think he's made a mistake, but finally Loupe stands up straight and says, "Turl, show them the special stock."

"Fine," Turl says. He slides to the ground and walks between the towering crates, his arms crossed, goose-bumps on his bare arms.

"You're a lucky man, captain. Normally I have nothing of this kind on this leg of my route, but these two invited themselves on board." Captain Loupe sneers and shakes his head. "Can you believe they thought they could blow up my craft? Two port snips like that? I think not."

"You caught them in the act?" Bob asks.

"Apparently they thought warming my bed meant they were trusted." Loupe laughs, flexing his hands into fists. "I soon showed them the truth."

"It's the only way," Bob says, hating himself for saying the words. He feels sick at the approving look Loupe sends his way, and channels that into controlled anger as they squeeze through a narrow gap that ends in another empty space. Except, as Bob looks, he sees a row of cages along the wall, so small that it's impossible for anyone to stand, and in two of them, Mikey and Frank. They've changed since the pictures Bob has seen, but they're easily recognisable, huddled up and leaning against the bars of the empty cage between them. When they see Turl appear, Frank leaps forward and starts to yell, "You mother-fucking bastard, you'd better let us go!"

"As you see, he has spirit. Breaking him would be interesting, or maybe you prefer a more docile fuck? I assure you, the silent one is good."

Captain Loupe has his hand on Bob's shoulder, as if they're suddenly friends and Bob has to work hard not to shudder at the touch. Instead he looks at Gerard, sensing that things are going to escalate; and fast. Gerard's face has lost all colour and his beat is one of fury, hurtling out of control. It's something that can't be missed and both Captain Loupe and Turl turn toward him, their own sound rapidly changing from surprise to anger as Gerard runs toward the cages.

"Mikey! Mikey!"

He drops to his knees and tugs at the bars, back turned toward Turl who's aiming Bob’s stunner.

"Oh fuck, no!" Ray leaps forward and jumps on Turl’s back. They both fall to the floor, snarling as they roll, Turl trying to get off a shot. Bob wants to help Ray, but Captain Loupe is making his own move, pulling out his stunner that’s been concealed in his robe. He fires and Bob jumps to the side, gasping as he feels his arm go numb. He falls to one knee and Captain Loupe looms above him and Bob knows he's got seconds to act. Making a fist he slams it directly into Captain Loupe’s crotch.

"Fucker!" Going to shoot Bob's head, Loupe over-balances when Bob follows up by elbowing him behind the knee, making him crash to the ground. Knowing this is his only chance; Bob grabs the stunner from Loupe’s hand and pushes it against his neck and fires, swallowing hard at the smell of cooking flesh.

"No!"

Turl is on his back, Ray kneeling above him. He's got both hands fisted in Turl’s shirt, and is pulling him up and slamming his body against the floor. Each time Turl hits with a harsh smack, but he's still fighting back, his struggles intensifying when he sees Bob stand over Captain Loupe. Blocking off any emotion, Bob finishes Loupe off with a laser to the chest.

"Code nine in the hold." As soon as Turl yells alarms sound and the hold is illuminated with blinding light. He looks triumphant as he starts to speak again. “I repeat..."

Ray makes a fist and thumps Turl hard in the face. He goes silent, head falling to the side, but Ray keeps hitting, slamming his fist into Turl’s face over and over. "That's for Frank. For Mikey. For thinking slavery is okay. For Bob. Gerard. Me. Matt." Breathing hard, his knuckles and nose bleeding, Ray's shaking when Bob grabs hold of him, wrapping his fingers around Ray's tensed arm.

"That's enough." He pulls Ray to his feet, understanding the compulsion to keep hitting, but they need to get out of here, and fast. Pulling Ray toward the cages, Bob kneels next to Gerard, who's still pulling at the bars.

"I can't get them open."

"There's a control on his gloves." Frank's pressed into the very corner of the cage, as close to them as he can get. He's looking from Gerard to Ray as if he can't believe they're there.

"Right," Bob says, and goes back to Turl. He quickly finds the control glove won't come off and knowing it’s the only thing to do; Bob lasers off the arm, severing it through the entwined triangles that are branded on his skin. Picking it up by the wrist, he holds it in front of the lock and it opens with a click. Immediately Frank runs out, stepping on Turl as he grabs hold of Ray and holds on, clinging tight.

Bob's too late to do the same to Mikey's cage. Gerard's already grabbed hold of the severed hand, holding it against the cage as he looks at Mikey’s who’s kneeling on the other side of the bars, his arms pushed through them so he can touch Gerard. The locks open and Mikey crawls out and launches himself forward.

Neither speaks; Gerard holding tight, his arms wrapped around Mikey, and Mikey's hugging just as tight in return, his face pressed against Gerard’s neck.

"We need to go." Bob pulls at Gerard's shirt. "The others in the crew will be coming."

Bob can hear them coming, their beats on alert and he knows they've got a matter of minutes to get away. He tugs at Gerard again, and he finally breaks the hug, but still holds onto Mikey’s hand.

"You've got a craft?" Mikey asks, and he looks nervously toward the main hold.

"It's docked," Bob says, and Mikey nods. He looks at Frank, communicating in a flurry of non-words. "We know the way, come on."

He runs, Frank at his side. Bob following once he picks up his stunner from under Turl’s body and blasts him in the chest, making sure he’s really dead.

They take a different route back to the _Love and Death_ , running headlong along a corridor and behind them Bob can hear the sound of footsteps and then cries of anger when Captain Loupe and Turl are discovered. Those sounds spur them on, and Bob's breathing hard, forcing Gerard to keep running that little bit faster when they see the dock.

"The control glove," Frank says. "Where is it?"

Gerard reaches inside his shirt and pulls out the arm. “Here.”

Taking it, Frank holds it against the control and the door to the docking tube opens. They all hurry inside and Bob stands guarding the entrance, stunner pointing toward the corridor of _The Gull_ as the door closes again. When it does there’s the familiar taste of recycled air, and then, finally, the door of the _Love and Death_ can be opened.

Bob does, and immediately runs to the conn, looking back once to make sure everyone is on board. Jumping into his seat he pulls down the headset and takes off, blasting away without caring about direction or speed. He just flies, getting as much distance between them and _The Gull_ as possible. Trembling through the initial surge of flight, Bob's arm throbs with pain that ripples in waves. It stays with him as his awareness is thrown outwards, ribbons of sound and light and as much as it hurts, it's tempting to stay hidden in this universe. Because Bob knows when he goes back it's to a complete crew, but one that's fractured in more ways than he'd never imagined.

Still, he can't keep flying forever, and eventually Bob sets in co-ordinates that'll keep them hidden in the shadow of a moon. He takes off his headset and groans, his arm cradled against his chest as he lies back and listens. The melody of the _Love and Death_ is one of re-birth and new beginnings, but at the same time it's not right. Sound is misplaced, jagged in places where it should be smooth. Pushing himself to his feet, Bob goes to see his new crew.

He discovers Ray sitting on one bunk, Mikey and Frank on the other. Gerard is kneeling in front of Mikey, but unlike before, they’re distance between and Mikey’s pulled in tight, arms crossed and when Gerard does touch he jerks back and snaps, "Don't."

"I just. You're hurt," Gerard says and he looks stricken when he looks at Bob. "His wrists, you need to take a look."

"I can do it myself, or Frank can." Mikey slides closer to Frank, never looking at Gerard.

"Let him look," Frank says, and he smiles up at Bob. "Hi, I'm Frank."

It's a small smile, but real, and Bob can't help responding with one of his own, even as he’s wondering what’s gone on in the time he’s been away. "Bob."

"Gerard says you're the one who saved us," Frank says, and without warning he's jumping up and hugging Bob tight. "Thank you."

Awkwardly, Bob pats Frank's back. "All I did was provide a craft."

"And came and got me, and went to a shatter planet and tracked everyone down and...."

Bob cuts Gerard off. "It's not like I did it on my own."

"Whatever," Gerard says, "We all know the truth."

"Yeah, we do." Mikey stands, putting distance between him and Gerard. "The truth is it took a stranger to come and get us, while my big brother sat on his ass in the club and moped." The words are soft, but sharp, and Mikey clenches his jaw. "Is there somewhere private in this thing, a bathroom?"

"Over there," Ray says, and Mikey takes off, almost running to get away.

"He didn't mean it." Frank's still holding on, and Bob can sense how tired he is as he lets go and turns to Gerard. "He's just-- He knows you won't hit back."

Which may be true, but Bob can't help feeling angry. Gerard's hand is resting against the scars on his neck and he's looking at the floor, his hurt so obvious that Bob wants to haul Mikey out of the bathroom and shake him. Instead he looks at Frank, taking in the bruises and the welts around his wrists. Gently, Bob pushes him toward the bunk. "Sit down, these need fixing up."

"I should..." Frank looks toward the bathroom, then slumps down. "Thanks."

Thanks to Pete, the medical supplies are better now, and Bob opens the case that’s been set on the floor. Opening it up he takes out packets of sterilised gauze and antiseptic and starts to take out a pain patch before Frank shakes his head.

"I don't need it."

Bob doesn't believe him. Frank's moving slowly as if he's aching all over and he's favouring one hip, his hands torn and covered in dried blood. Picking up the patch, Bob says, "It won't knock you out, promise."

Eyes widening, Frank looks over at Bob's shoulder at Ray. Whatever he sees must reassure him as he holds out his arm and watches as Bob smoothes on the patch. "I have to be on alert, I didn't mean-- I don't think--"

"It's okay, you don't have to explain." Bob takes the bowl of warm water that Gerard hands over, and soaks some gauze. Carefully he cleans Frank's hands, cleaning out the cuts and using tweezers to remove the remains of torn nails. Frank never says a word, just sits and silently does as Bob asks. He keeps his eyes open when Bob tilts back his head so he can clean the cut along Frank's jaw. When asked, he shrugs out of his shirt, exposing the bruises on his side and the welts that crisscross his back.

They're the injuries Bob expected to see, and he deals by methodically tending to each one. He concentrates only on the wounds and what he can do to help--Ray's increasingly macabre thoughts about what he wants to do to Captain Loupe’s body and Gerard's pleas to Mikey nothing but a background blur of sound. Finally, when he reaches the bruising that darkens under the waist band of Frank's pants, Bob straightens. "I can do the rest, or give you the stuff to do it yourself."

Frank holds out his hand and Bob gives him a variety of medical supplies. "I'd say go in the bathroom so that you could get cleaned up after, but...."

"It's okay, he'll let me in." Frank sounds sure and he takes more supplies out of the case. "I'll fix Mikey up while I'm in there." He stands and flashes Ray a reassuring smile before walking to the bathroom. It's off the side of the kitchen, and Gerard is leaning close, cheek against the door as he talks, his voice already wearing with the repetition of quiet pleas.

"Mikey, please. Let me in. Please."

"I'll talk to him," Frank says, and he rests against Gerard, head against his shoulder. "Mikey, it's me. Let me in."

A brief hesitation and Mikey opens the door enough that Frank can slide inside, leaving Gerard standing alone. Bob starts to clean his own injury, angrily tearing open a packet of burn cream and squeezing it out along his arm before starting to rub it in.

"You'll hurt yourself." Ray reaches out and places his hand on Bob's arm.

"It already hurts."

"Well, you'll hurt it more." Taking the antiseptic, Ray sprays his own hands and starts to gently rub in the cream. "They'll work things out, they always do."

Bob isn't so sure. He hates how lost Gerard looks and can't help feeling resentful that it's Mikey--the person they've searched so hard to find--causing it.

Ray looks at Gerard, but he keeps working the cream into Bob's wound. "They've always been close, and the thing is, when you have that kind of bond you know what to say that'll hurt the most. I don't believe for a minute Mikey thinks Gerard let him down."

"Gerard does. Believes."

"Gerard's always had a saviour complex," Ray says, fond exasperation in the statement. "That it's Mikey just makes it even worse." Ray finishes rubbing and wipes his hands on a dry piece of gauze then picks up a pain patch despite Bob's warning look. "There's enough hurting going on around here, why take on more?"

It's a valid point and Bob smoothes the patch onto his upper arm. Immediately the pain begins to ease and he starts to gather up the empty packets and the bowl that contains the dirty gauze. Tipping the water into the recycle unit, he puts the bowl to clean and the trash in a container.

"Let me help, I can do that at least." Gerard takes the container of trash and takes it to the incinerator. It takes him four attempts before he can slot it into the gap at the top and Bob's ready to do it for him when Gerard finally manages and then braces his hands against the nearby counter, his head bowed. "Fuck. I can't even… I can't do a fucking thing right."

"You do plenty right." Bob says. Then, guessing that this isn't really about the incinerator shoot, "He doesn't mean it."

"You don't know him; he always means what he says."

There's nothing Bob can say in reply, because he doesn't know Mikey. He's not sure he _wants_ to know him, and some of that thought must bleed out because Gerard stands and turns so he's looking directly at Bob.

"He's not always like this. He's awesome. He's… So, _so_ talented, and funny, and once you get to know him you'll see that too." Some of the frustration pours off of Gerard, allowing the despondency to return. "That is, if he sticks around."

"He'll stick around, even if I have to lock him in the bathroom to make it happen."

Gerard smiles a little then, and Bob doesn't say that he means every word.

"Hopefully it won't come to that."

"It won't." The bathroom door opens and Frank looks out. "We can hear every word in there, you know. Your walls aren't soundproofed very well."

"Sorry, next stop I'll soundproof it just for you."

Frank grins then, and leans out a little further. "You do that, but until then, I don't suppose you have any clothes we can wear? These are kind of wrecked."

"I've something better than that, Pete sent this." Bob goes and gets the bag Pete sent, handing it over to Frank.

"You've met Pete?" Frank sounds shocked, and Bob realises there's so much that they need to know.

"He helped find you."

"Good. That's…good." Sounding uncertain, the bag held to his chest, Frank goes back inside, shutting the door behind him.

The next hours are awkward. Mikey emerges from the bathroom, but he's still not talking and Gerard tries to fill in the gaps by talking too much. He's sitting at the table, telling some story no one is listening to, and Bob's head is aching from lack of sleep and the tension filling his craft. It's like they've swapped one bad situation for another, this one being one he has no idea how to fix. All he wants is for this day to end.

"I'm going to pull down the other bunks." Bob puts down the remains of his cold coffee and looks at the bunks. Three are already down; he needs to make another two. Suspecting he's going to end in the very top bunk, the one where his nose is inches from the ceiling, he starts to pulls down the one above Gerard's when Frank says, "One will do, I'll be sharing with Mikey."

Mikey and Frank are wearing the clothes Pete sent, their bruises more apparent now that they're clean. Right now they're sitting in Bob's bunk, pressed close together, Frank taking a protective position, despite the fact his hands are shaking with the effort to stay still.

"I'll help." Gerard stands, too, gathering up blankets and pillows, taking an excessive amount of time to ensure the corners are perfect and the covers smooth. When it's done he climbs into his own bunk and crawls under the blanket, pulling his data pad from under the pillow. He switches it on, and the light bleeds over his face, throwing it into shadows.

He's not reading, really just watching Frank and Mikey over the top of the pad. Ray's napping in his own bunk, and Bob can't help comparing now to before. It's unfair, and he knows that. But as he tidies the kitchen, scrubbing at counters that aren't even dirty, he remembers nights watching bad 3D movies. Time spent in the hold, listening to the others play. Laughing as he flew through an asteroid storm, Bert swearing as he clutched at the back of Bob's chair.

They're memories Bob cherishes, full of light and life, as opposed to now, when he's surrounded by people who've survived, but are drowning under their own fears. Bob doesn't exclude himself in that assessment.

When everything is gleaming, and Mikey and Frank are lying down--wrapped close together, their backs to the rest of the room--all Bob can do is climb into his new space, try and get comfortable under the cold blanket, and close his eyes, hoping for sleep.

Bob does sleep; for all of an hour. He's woken by a plea of _no, please_. Heart racing, he's reaching for his stunner when he realises it's Mikey who's making the noise. He's curled up tightly, his eyes closed, hands held up against some invisible foe. Avoiding Mikey's hands, Frank sits up, his knees pulled to his chest and the blanket trailing to the floor.

"Mikey, shhhh, it's okay." Frank sounds exhausted and his beat is sluggish, as opposed to Mikey's which is all panicked ridges and peaks of sound. "You're safe now, remember? Safe. Gee… Um, they came. They came and found us."

He's careful not to touch Mikey at all, just keeps talking, his voice pitched low. But it's not helping and after a painfully long time, when Mikey's moved from outright panic to hitching, defeated sobs, Gerard climbs out of his bunk and sits next to Frank.

"I'll stay with him," Gerard says, and he puts his arm around Frank's shoulders, pulling him in for a tight hug. "Go on, get in my bunk, you need to sleep."

"I don't know." Frank sounds unsure, but he's visibly wilting and eventually says, "Okay, yeah."

Gerard kisses Frank on the side of the head. "You know I'll look after him."

"I know," Frank says, and he looks at Mikey again before climbing into Gerard's bunk.

Left alone, Gerard glances up at Bob, then turns so he's sitting on the very edge of Mikey's space. For a moment he just looks at Mikey, and Bob thinks that if Mikey could look over, could really see Gerard now he'd have no delusions that Gerard doesn't care. Because the love Gerard feels is obvious, the lines of his face softening as he reaches out, not touching but skimming his hand over Mikey's shoulder.

"Hey, Mikes. I know I haven't got anything you want to hear right now, but remember this song? Helena used to sing it to you." Gerard clears his throat then and begins to sing. "Hush little Mikey don't say a word, grandma's going to buy you a trilling bird. If that trilling bird don't sing. Grandma's going to buy you a saturn ring. If that saturn ring turns to dust, Grandma's going to buy you some hossyak musk. If that hossyak musk goes sour, grandma's going to buy you shooting star shower. If that shooting star shower burns out, grandma's going to buy you-- Buy you...."

Bob leans over the bunk and sings softly, "A uni mount."

Gerard smiles a quick thanks. "Grandma's going to buy you a uni mount. If that uni mount falls down, you'll still be the best little boy in town. So hush little Mikey don't you cry. Because grandma loves you and so do I."

As Gerard sings, Mikey settles slightly, his body relaxing.

"You remember that one? It was one of your favourites, and every time you asked what a hossyak was and why the uni mount fell down." Gerard laughs softly. "You were an annoying kid at times. Mostly though, mostly you were awesome." After a moment, a hitched breath, Gerard risks, "You still are. No matter what happened. But enough of that. Do you remember this song?"

Gerard sings again, and again, and despite himself Bob can't help dropping off to sleep, Gerard's singing a faint echo in his dreams.

When he wakes again, Bob feels good. The beats around him are calm, and when he sits up he sees that Gerard is still sitting propped up in the bunk, head forward and his hand against Mikey's back. It gives Bob hope that they've started to fix things. Then Mikey wakes up and as soon as he's aware he cringes from Gerard's touch, almost knocking Gerard to the floor in his scramble to get out.

"I told you not to touch me," Mikey spits out and he stalks away, looking at no one as he goes into the bathroom.

"I'll go," Frank says wearily, and he appears out of Gerard's bunk, rubbing at his eyes, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he follows Mikey. Which leaves Gerard sitting alone, dejected in look and feel. Pushing back the urge to throttle Mikey, Bob climbs out of his bunk and goes to sit next to Gerard. Deciding against any platitudes--Bob _knows_ that right now Mikey means what he says; he also knows that anger rarely lasts forever--Bob remains silent and waits.

"It's good that he's so angry," Gerard says eventually. He touches his face, his neck, his hair. "He keeps things bottled up, so expressing how he feels is healthy."

"Maybe," Bob says. "But he's expressing that anger at the wrong target."

Gerard looks at Bob and at first it looks like he's going to protest. Then he leans so he's lying against Bob's side. "My neck hurts."

"That's what you get for sleeping sitting up," Bob says, but he's already urging Gerard up, ignoring his protests to knead at Gerard's neck and shoulders. Eventually, when Bob's hands are aching and Gerard's as relaxed as he's going to get, Bob stops kneading and Gerard looks back at him through a veil of his hair. "Thank you."

"It's nothing," Bob says, and makes sure he's decent before standing. "You want something to eat?"

"Coffee, otherwise I'll fall asleep."

"Make that two." Ray jumps down from his bunk, bare feet slapping against the floor. As it always is in the mornings, his voice is raspy and he coughs behind his hand, doubling over as Bob goes and grabs him a drink. Taking it, Ray swallows nearly all the water in one. "Thank you."

"You can thank me by making breakfast," Bob says, sounding utterly serious.

"My lungs don't work properly and I'm still expected to help with breakfast? What about Gerard?"

Hamming it up, Gerard presses the back of his hand to his forehead and tips back his head as if he's about to swoon. "I'm still weak from my year of isolation at the club."

"Right," Ray says, drawing out the sound. He looks at Bob. "And what's your excuse?"

"I'm still suffering after-effects from the shatter planet; my mind may never be the same again. In fact, what did you say your name was?"

"Sucker, apparently." Ray puts his hands on his hips, trying for stern but the twitch of his lips betrays him as much as his light-hearted beat.

"Sucker Toro. It has a nice ring to it." Gerard smiles as he stands and waves his hands toward the kitchen. "Go. Make me coffee."

"I'll make the coffee if you two get the food."

It's a good suggestion. Making the coffee is easy on Ray's hands, which are still healing from working at the mines. Plus, while he won't admit it, Bob likes watching the enjoyment Gerard gets out of cooking, especially his fascination with the pancake drops.

"Sounds good to me." As expected, Gerard grabs a tube of pancake drops and squeezes a drop onto a plate, watching intently as it expands into a fully formed pancake. It doesn't take long before he has a stack, and Bob chops up a bowl of hisnat fruits, shaking sucre on top. Taking the mugs of coffee off Ray, he puts them on the table and looks up at the two remaining chairs that are folded up and still attached high up on the wall. He reaches up and pulls them both down, setting them next to the table.

"I'll go get Frank and Mikey," Ray says, and the easy-going atmosphere in the room changes, tension bleeding in once more as he knocks at the door. "Frank, Mikey. There's breakfast."

It's a surprise when the door immediately opens, Frank pulling Mikey out behind him. They both sit, Mikey as far away from Gerard as he can possibly be. It's something that doesn't go unnoticed and even the pancakes don't tempt Gerard to eat more than a few bites. Mikey doesn't eat either, just rips a pancake into shreds and drinks three cups of coffee. Which leaves Bob, Ray and Frank to finish the food. They manage, though Frank eats the least by far.

Pushing away his plate, Gerard says, "I think I'm going to lie down a while." He goes to his bunk, crawling under the blanket and pulling it up over his head.

Standing, Bob gathers the dishes and slots them into the cleanser. They clatter against the sides and he slows down his movements because the thing is, Bob's got this crew, but he doesn't know what to do with them. Gerard's hiding, Frank and Mikey are whispering together, and Ray looks like he's torn between them all.

If he's honest with himself, Bob never expected it to be this hard and suddenly he's remembering days of solitude, lying in his bunk with a holo pad and streamed tele novel. Idealistic memories he knows, but right now they're better than this--where he has everything he had before, but it's all wrong somehow.

"You have 3D scrabble." Bob turns and sees Ray stretching up for a small control box. When he grabs it he looks at the display. "Is it okay to play?"

"Go for it, but I warn you, I'm good."

Ray sets the box in the middle of the table. "I bet you're not as good as nimble fingers Way, here." He pushes a series of buttons and the scrabble grid is projected in the air, letters floating in the air in four places. "I've set it for four, expert level."

"Fine," Bob says. "Prepare to be crushed."

It turns out Mikey Way is some kind of genius at the game. He can tap out a series of words at an incredible rate, slotting them onto the board while everyone else is still arranging their letters. It's a challenge Bob can't resist, but three games later he's still being soundly beaten when Gerard starts to stir. He's still asleep, Bob can feel that, but suddenly his beat surges, becomes frantic with fear as Gerard yells, "Mikey!"

They all stand to go to him, but Mikey gets there first, seemingly acting on instinct as he drops to his knees and reaches for Gerard.

"Gerard, I'm here. It's okay."

Still caught in the nightmare, Gerard twists around and grabs Mikey's wrists, holding tight. "You're not taking him! Leave him alone! No!"

"Gee. It's okay. I'm here."

"No! Stop hurting him. Mikey!"

"Gerard. Stop. I'm okay. I'm safe." Mikey shakes at his wrists as hard as he can, trying to jolt Gerard.

"Mikey?" Gerard opens his eyes, blinking hard.

"I'm here," Mikey says, and then as if it registers that he's leaning close to Gerard, Mikey tries to pull away. "Though I don't know why, let me go."

"I thought..." Gerard swallows hard, and then releases his grip so Mikey can stand. He looks at his own hands which are smeared with blood. He blinks, as if unsure of what he's seeing. "I've hurt you."

A beat passes, then two. "Not like it's the first time," Mikey spits, and walks away, cradling one wrist in his hand.

Frank sighs. "I'll take Gerard, you'll need to check Mikey's wrists, they were fucked up."

"No, I'll check them. Bob, can you get the case?" Ray stands, sounding and looking stern. When Mikey tries to get past him he grabs his arm and pulls him to the table. "Sit down." Mikey does, though he looks past Ray as if he doesn't even exist, which prompts Ray to cradle Mikey's jaw, tilting his head so he has to look. "No you don't, you're going to listen to me."

Ray's voice is low, but Bob can still hear him as he gets the medical case, and he knows Gerard and Frank can too as they talk quietly, Frank wrapped around Gerard. Taking the case into the kitchen, Bob sets it on the table and opens it up.

"Thanks," Ray says, and takes out some packaged gauze, opening it before dipping it into the bowl of water Bob sets in front of him. Gently, Ray starts to clean Mikey's wrists of blood, dabbing at the scabs that have been torn open by Gerard's hands. "I know you've been through a lot this last year, but...."

"Do you know what these are off?" Mikey interrupts. "They used wire rope, wrapped it around and then tied it off. I've matching cuts on my ankles."

Momentarily, Ray looses his stern expression, but only for an instant. "I'm sorry you went through that, and you've every right to be angry. But don’t you think you're directing your anger at the wrong person? Gerard doesn't deserve it."

“He was supposed to come and find me.”

"It isn’t that easy." Actions gentle as opposed to his words, Ray cradles Mikey's wrist and sprays antiseptic over the deep cuts. "Do you know where Gerard was most of the last year? He was in the club. He couldn't go home, just had to stay there in a ruined building with the rotting bodies of our audience. You know Gerard, better than anyone. How do you think that affected him? Stuck there with that and the memories of us being taken away. Have you even seen his neck?"

"Yes I’ve seen it, but what am I supposed to do? Be happy that he sat around in a funk for a year? That while I was sold on to be a sex slave and tied to a bed with my legs spread he was eating protein spheres and drinking his way through the club’s alcohol supplies. So don’t tell me Gerard didn’t have it easy.”

“Okay, I won’t.” Ray takes Mikey’s other hand and examines his wrist. “But don’t shut him out.”

Blowing on his free wrist, Mikey doesn’t look up as he says, ““It’s Gerard. I couldn’t keep him out if I tried.”

~~~~

The rest of the day is filled with more games and uncomfortable silences. Bob spends a lot of time up front, sitting alone and watching the stars, trying to work out what he can do to make things better. He's got no ideas, though, and when he does go back to the others he makes a quick meal before heading off to sleep, hoping that tomorrow things will be better.

Hours later he wakes to a strangled shout. Opening his eyes he looks down and sees that Mikey is caught in the aftermaths of another nightmare, bundled in his blanket as Frank rubs his back. Frank's also groping one-handed for the data pad Pete sent and he flicks it on, blinking rapidly as he tries to focus on the words.

Aware that Gerard is awake, Bob isn't surprised when he sees him slide out of his own bunk to sit on the edge of Mikey and Frank's.

"I've got him," Gerard says. "You go get some sleep."

Frank looks like he's going to protest, as Mikey's leaning forward, struggling to even breathe, but with a last pat to Mikey's back, he slips out of the bunk and allows Gerard to take his place. Frank stands still then, looking lost and Bob reaches down, touching his shoulder. He jumps in response, but when Bob beckons, climbs up and sits next to him, knees up and arms wrapped around his legs, the data pad held tightly in his hands.

"Get under the cover, you're cold," Bob says, and tugs at the blanket until Frank's got some cover.

"Thanks," Frank says, and remains still, keeping watch.

"Mikey, it's only me."

Gerard's voice is low, but they're so close that Bob can hear every word, which is good, because Bob needs to fix his crew. Maybe this way he’ll hear something that can help.

"Mikey, I'm sorry." Gerard's hand is on Mikey's back and he's rubbing in circles. "I would have found you earlier, but I was a mess, all alone in the club. I tried calling you back. I thought, if you heard--"

"I thought you were dead," Mikey says, his voice muffled against the blanket. "They kept shooting and you weren't there, and then they took me and Frank away and I still expected you to come get me." His tone is nothing but bitterness, but fear that has to be processed as something else. "How stupid is that?"

"It's not stupid," Gerard says fiercely, "it's holding onto hope. There's nothing wrong with that."

"There's everything wrong with that." Mikey sits up then, turns so he can see Gerard. "It was what kept me going. I'd hope that maybe today you'd come get me. Maybe today I'd be left alone. Maybe today I'd be given to someone that wouldn't hurt me. Maybe today I'd _die_. But you never did, and they never did, and I never did. I woke up every fucking morning and had to do it again. _That's_ what hope got me."

"Oh god, Mikey. I’m sorry. I never…” Gerard sounds stricken and he pulls Mikey into a hug, holding on tight. “I thought… I didn’t know exactly. I’m so sorry.”

Mikey continues, as if Gerard hasn’t spoken at all. " Hope got me nowhere. I didn't want hope. I wanted to lie down and die and I couldn't because each time I tried I'd remember you and your fucking messages. They hurt me, over and over again and all I wanted was you. For you to come. But you didn't. You…didn't." Mikey sounds lost, younger even, than he is.

"I'm sorry," Gerard's voice twists, anguish warping it. "I’m so sorry."

"That's the thing," Mikey says tiredly. "I knew you’d come if you could. That you'd be there, which meant you had to be dead. And I hated you for that. For being dead and still sticking around and telling me to hang on. I still hate you a little now, and I can't stop that. Not yet. And I hate myself for that, because-- Because I love you. And I missed you, and-- God, I'm a mess."

Gerard wraps his arm around Mikey's shoulders, pulling him in close. "That's okay. You can hate me, as long as I know why."

"You don't know half of it," Mikey says, but he allows himself to be held and curls his fingers around Gerard's when he reaches for his hand. "I have nightmares. If Frank's not there I can't sleep and I know it's killing him, because he hates to be still. After… They hurt him too, Gee." This is whispered even more quietly than the rest of the conversation has been. "Held him in that collar so he hardly had room to move. But he does it for me and if I were any kind of friend I'd tell him to go, but I can't. I just… I can't sleep without him; he keeps them away. They can't touch me if he's here."

Frank stills then, breathing harshly as if he's fighting panic and Bob reaches for him, trying to give comfort as Gerard rests his head against Mikey's.

"How about I stay here tonight? Let Frank have some space."

Mikey looks up then, and the bond between him and Frank is obvious, their own melody fractured but still strong and Bob can see Mikey's scared, but Gerard keeps holding on until eventually Mikey says, "I think, yeah."

Expecting Frank to relax, Bob's surprised when he tenses even more and his beat is frantic as he looks at Bob and says desperately, "I need out of here. I need space."

The problem with the _Love and Death_ is that it's small. But there is one place they can go, and Bob slides out of his bunk, pulling Frank with him.

"Frank?" Mikey starts to move, but Frank shakes his head, trying to control his panicked breathing.

"I'm okay. Promise."

He looks far from okay, shaking so hard it seems as though he's on the verge of flying apart. Bob takes hold of his elbow and steers him forward, to the door that leads to the hold. It's almost empty right now, only a few small crates, most brought from Pete's, the instruments carefully packed and attached to the floor, which is perfect for Frank's needs. He sits on the floor, head in his hands, Bob standing close, because despite the melody that shows Frank is part of his crew, Bob doesn't _know_ him, and he's on the verge of going for Ray, for anyone, when Frank looks up.

"Sorry. It's just. Mikey was talking about me being held and the memories-- I've spent so long trapped, and I don't mind, I don't-- Mikey needs me so I stay still and it _hurts_. I need to move and I can't."

Frank's still shaking, his teeth chattering and Bob has a sudden memory of one of the things Gerard first told him, a show and drums flying apart, and he knows what to do. He goes to a control panel, makes sure the door is sealed tight, and then inputs the sequence so the hold loses all gravity. Immediately, he pushes himself float upwards, and holds up his arms, bracing his hands against the ceiling. When Frank realises what he's done he does the same, and looks over at Bob.

"You turned off the gravity?"

"I figured it's a good way to be free."

Bob thinks Frank doesn't get it at first, but then he pushes off from the ceiling, somersaulting in space. He hits the ground upside down and pushes off again, spinning wildly and with each leap, each roll his shaking eases. He's serious at first, attacking each jump with fierce determination, but then he laughs when he leap-frogs over Bob's head and then grabs hold, making them both spin. He runs circuits of the hold, feet pushing off against the walls ceiling and floor.

Bob joins in the impromptu race, flipping over the top of the floating crates and grabbing Frank's foot and pulling him in a wild circle. He lets go and Frank crashes into a wall, and keeps laughing when he pops back up and hits Bob in the stomach with his head, propelling them both across the room.

Eventually, when Frank's finished running, he floats in mid air, arms out as he slowly moves his hands so he spins in gentle circles. He looks at Bob and says, "thank you."

And Bob knows this is something they'll do again. As many times as Frank needs.

~~~~

Bob has always known that healing was an interminably slow process. At least, that feels like knowledge he's had forever. Too long now, for certain.

Mikey still has nightmares and Frank still needs his space, even after a week on the craft, after two. But at least they're beginning to talk, they all are, and sometimes Bob wonders how a group so damaged will ever function again.

But there are late night conversations that leave them all wrung out and hurting, and when it seems they're all taking turns to fall apart, Bob's there. He learns to make coffee for Mikey when he can't sleep and can't bare having anyone touch him. He reads Pete's sub-channels to Ray when his hands are in agony with past aches and present healing pains. He spends time in the hold with Frank, creating their own games, and, of course, hours with Gerard, just sitting close and listening as he talks, becoming closer all the while.

Bob gives his time willingly, and as the days pass, his love. Because these people are his crew, in heart as well as name. The problem is, Bob can't be certain of how they feel in return, and has no idea how to ask. He monitors their rhythms, and although they shift while on the craft, it's hard to know if that is simply from the new safety afforded them, or due his added presence.

"Pete's posted a new sub-channel." Frank holds up the data pad and begins to read. "Missing you days get dark and nights long winter in summer and eyes to the sky ever hoping." He flicks off the page and says simply, "I think it's time we went back."

Bob agrees. Pete knows Mikey and Frank are safe, but nothing more, and he knows they all need to talk. The problem is, as Bob stands and makes his way to the conn, all he can feel is this is the first step of splitting his new crew apart, of separating them before they even knew they were his.

~~~~

It's Patrick who meets them at Vanatrous. He's leaning against the yellow vehicle, his hat pulled low, and when he sees Mikey and Frank he scowls.

"Patrick, hi," Frank says quietly. "It's good to see you again."

"Yeah," Patrick says. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and it's obvious that there's something he wants to say, but he's biting back the words.

"Where's Pete?" Mikey asks, looking around as if Pete could be hiding somewhere.

"He's back at the house, you know, in case he waited here and you decided to go off and get captured again."

"We hardly _let_ ourselves be captured," Frank says hotly. "We kicked trafficker ass."

"Until you got caught." Dust swirls around Patrick's feet as he kicks at the ground, his voice rising. "What the hell were you thinking? You don't go wandering off with strange captains, or go on a two-man slave freeing campaign, or sneak off without saying goodbye. Do you even know what that did to Pete? He stood by you at your worst and then you left. I should kick your asses right now."

"If it would help." Frank hitches up his pants, again, and steps forward, holding out his hands. "Take your best shot."

"Morons, I swear." Patrick rolls his eyes and then his anger seems to deflate as he pulls Frank into a quick hug. "You're so skinny I'd probably break you in two, and as for you." He points at Mikey. "You look like a good breeze would blow you over."

"He's right." Gerard clicks his tongue as he stares at Mikey. "I'll have to fatten you two up."

"More pancakes,” Mikey says hopefully.

“As many as you can eat,” Gerard replies.

"You're a culinary genius," Mikey says seriously. He looks back, checking on them all before climbing into the vehicle, taking a seat with Gerard. It takes all of a second before Frank's throwing himself inside too, Ray following more sedately, but still managing to squash himself into the same seat as the other three.

Which leaves Bob with Patrick, who's watching them all and while he's not smiling, Bob can sense how relieved he is to have them back. "I'd say life's going to get a lot less quiet, but it's not like we're quiet anyway, so."

While Patrick hasn't said the actual words, Bob knows what he means, and he knows his fears are beginning to come true. "You're going to ask them to stay?"

"Pete won't lose them again," Patrick says. He climbs inside, taking a seat opposite the others. Bob does too.

~~~

The journey to Pete's house is quiet. The walls are clear but no one's looking outside. Instead they're caught in their own thoughts and when the vehicle pulls to halt it's only Patrick who makes a move. He opens the door and jumps outside, then looks back in.

"Come on."

Bob stands then, and this is the third time he's arrived at Pete's house, but it's the first time Pete himself isn't there; just the closed front door and an uncomfortable silence. Except, when Bob steps outside he sees a face at one of the downstairs windows, and he knows Pete's watching, waiting. Bob steps to one side and listens as the harmony between Mikey, Frank and Pete grows, strengthening as if the song is almost complete.

"Pete?"

Frank's out of the vehicle now, Mikey too, and they're both looking at the house, waiting.

The front door is flung open and Pete appears. He's running at first, but he slows, hesitant to touch. Frank breaches the distance, pulling Pete into a hug, then reaching back and pulling Mikey in too, all three saying nothing as they hold on.

"Do you think I should threaten to kick his ass?" Bob turns to look at Gerard, who's watching the hug with a smile. "Because it seems like the brotherly thing to do."

"You're okay with this?"

Gerard considers. "It's not going to be easy, but I think Pete knows that. He was there for them when they needed it. I can't see that changing."

Which is something Bob agrees with, and something that technically helps when he thinks of how his new crew is splitting apart and how he suspects he’s lost them already. Frank and Mikey with Pete, Ray talking to Patrick, and Gerard, who's standing close to Bob, his arm around his waist, there for now. But Bob knows he'll leave too. It's inevitable, because no matter how Gerard feels, the friendship and love he has for Bob, Gerard will always stay with his brother and best friends.

Which means all that's left is for Bob to leave. It'll be easier that way, before his attachment gets too strong--except for the part where he knows it already has.

~~~~

After hours of catch-up, Andy handing out fake steaks and Gerard cooking his pancakes and presenting it to Mikey with a flourish, they all end up sleeping in the same room. Except, Bob can’t sleep at all, and after hours lying staring at the ceiling he sits up and looks around. Mikey and Frank are in the same bed, curled around one another, a data pad lying on the floor nearby. Gerard and Ray are in the other, the blanket pulled up to their ears so all Bob can see is a shock of dark hair next to wild red.

This close Bob can easily feel them all -- friendship and love, trust and respect – it’s all there, things that Bob thought he’d lost so long before.

“Bob?” There’s a rustle of sound and Gerard sits up in bed. His hair’s sticking up in all directions, and he looks at Bob through eyes that are more closed than open. “What are you doing?”

“Just thinking,” Bob says, and when Gerard climbs out of his own bed, Bob simply holds up the blanket of his own.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Gerard says through a yawn, and he rests heavily against Bob’s side.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“I told you not to eat that red stuff, it _moved_.”

“It’s not that, and anyway, it tasted good.” Refusing to get into yet another discussion of the merits of slava sludge, Bob tugs at the blanket so Gerard’s covered more.

“So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what your beat is saying. You sound conflicted, like one of those songs with twisted tempos that think they’re clever but end up just sounding wrong.”

Bob looks at Gerard. “Does that even make sense in your head?”

“It does,” Gerard says. “But stop stalling. Something’s got you twisted in knots.”

Bob thinks about side-stepping the issue again, but Gerard’s looking at him, patiently waiting, and Bob knows he needs to say how he feels. “It’s the whole Pete thing; he wants us to stay here. Well, he wants Mikey and Frank to stay,” Bob amends. "Which is good because they need some stability and time to heal. Same for you and Ray."

"I agree,” Gerard says, “But while we’re here, where will you be?”

“In the _Love and Death_ ,” Bob says, hoping Gerard understands. “I’m not made to live on solid ground, Gerard. I’m meant for deep space, me and my craft skimming the ribbons of sound.”

“And what if we want to do that, too?” Gerard pulls away from Bob and indicates the other beds with his hand. “Don’t you think we deserve the chance?”

“But Mikey and Frank…”

“Are awake and wanting to know how Gee hooked up with such a moron,” Frank says. He sits up in bed and looks over at Bob. “ _Of course_ we’re sticking together. You really thought we’d stay behind?”

“I thought you’d want to stay with Pete.”

Mikey sits up too. “Well you thought wrong. There’s a big universe out there and it’ll be nice to see it.” He hesitates then and looks at Frank. “In-between freeing slaves anyway.”

“Oh, hell no!” Gerard points at Mikey. “No more rescues for you. You’re going to stay here, or in the _Love and Death_ and one of us will always be with you. No more rescues or blowing shit up or nearly getting yourself killed.”

“You know that’s not going to happen,” Mikey says. “I love you, but no. There’s too many people out there that need our help.”

“He’s right,” Frank says. “But, no more risks. We can work alongside Pete’s operation, we’ll be a fantastic team, and that means all five of us, Bryar.”

Gerard’s silent for a while, then he says, “I guess I can work with that. As long as we’re together.”

“Like we’d be anywhere else,” Mikey says.

“For the record, I’m sticking with you all, too.” Ray sits up then, a shadow in the darkness. “But now that the tender moment is over, will you all shut up?! I’m trying to sleep.”

“And yet,” Frank says, throwing a pillow at Ray’s head. “You’re the one making the most noise.”

Immediately Ray throws it back, and Frank scrambles out of the covers so he catch and return it in the same move. “I am the pillow fight master!”

“In your dreams.” Ray jumps completely out of bed then, a pillow held in both hands as he dives onto Mikey and Frank. They all go down in a flurry of arms and legs, pillows being thumped against the nearest body part, and all Bob can hear is Frank’s giggles and Mikey’s laughter and Ray’s triumphant cry as he manages to hit them both in the face.

“Hey! No hitting my brother!”

Gerard jumps out of bed then, taking Bob’s pillow with him. Launching himself into the fight, he’s soon laughing when all three turn on him, hitting him repeatedly with their pillows.

Amused, Bob watches, until finally, when Gerard’s half off the bed, his head on the floor and his legs trapped under Frank’s body, Bob gets up too.

Snatching up a stray pillow he holds it above his head and readies himself to do battle.

With his friends. His family. His crew.


End file.
